Pot

In time we find light that was not so much a remembrance of character void, or a psalm of the heterogeneous unlimited focus- or stance of staving off the news, in the leeway there is no set mountain, or even the scuttled movement otherwise that allows the courteous to emote wisely, topping out of something takes no drawbridge, sleeping softly is no more calm than a stereo-graph printing interstellar onto a platform, finally without the fives at nines going awry for our teller to debunk the checks we saw came late, I hope for the favorite thing to be what doesn't unmake us- but stays traveling down an endless moon at noon, delicacy not, rectitude forward- yet always in knots, as we know we speak the language of our derailment of pot.