soft grain flows in the wind on the mental plateau,
no harvest has been sound, and the fruits of unkempt labor run long and unadulterated by the machines that so bare. the Seedings have fallen many years, the roots begin to spread, the establishment has drained its resevoire- the plants fall limp and dead

Malfisense to life is the many forks it takes, the people diverged to one, the mind to the other, and somewhere in between, perhaps on the high road, will man stride to his liking, and find the proper route.

castings in the boundries of internal invention is the malice of love, the one feeling that in such treachery may deceive beyond any chicanery.

into the fray of the heart go I in my armor, Shield over my heart, and breastplate of cold steel, into the battle of love, the unarmored are wounded, and in their joy seem sadists

lofty, lofty thoughts are those of progression beyond my seat, the boundry i have set for me is deep within PC. the pixels glare back to me with warmth i'll find none-else, the empty screen does call for me, its image keeps me in rest.

Orchards have their bloom, and farms to their harvest, the fruits doth go ripe in their time. 17 long years have I waited, when will it be lifes season for I?

incapsulate the feelings that one may have, into a commercialized little pill, The bright screen downs this pill for you, it filters what you could feel.