Jeffrey Epstein
The thwart and the lie, the rumor and the lane, the love so drastic like fruits in the seam of the glass. Borders of fragmented revenge. The dreams were not fantastic, the light full, fire blazing. Rejection and denial end hand in hand with reveling. To fall on one small structure. The minor equivalent of the shimmering pole of gore. They fray and side and the sedge way hexes the bountiful distances of bridges and yellow moons. The tears inhaled, the smiles crashing, no mother, no mother, no. In the hills I will be alone, but the day surrounds every shadow. Mocking chariot where I reach the eyes of menacing jokes. He is the coat of walls and the sort of hit you peel down so carelessly rising war in a thinking tomb. No more, and there are forms filled. He is large, looming like a lion. I am the dry petals of a ceiling rose. Wait. Weary figure, to ward the inches of ministration. No one is in this yield then they sail like ships of planet Ukase. Sheilds to armor to the fine raging town of a timbering forest. To the house. I would hope when the stir everts, once the box becomes a visible fall. Like a storm buried with my bones in a birch tree. An apology veers yesterday, tomorrow and the second the walls open into the next hexagram. Because doom unties the passion in a faithful poison and the bars, freights employ the hatred of the massive expectations on the smallest form of tired fate. Toward the unknown parallels the hours that stretched the instigator.
Copyright © Julie Scanga | Year Posted 2026
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