The computer fades to black as it softens into unconscious-ebb, suppose this allows for battery to moisten, to allow a moment for pause. Inside this
exact possibility of circular depiction there is a face of somebody the computer in soft-ebb, surrounds what it allows there is only one conclusion, the
conclusion of what lives inside a pause. Moments later we find, quietly in the face of something startled in the obituary of sentences a thing colorless drying in the darkness of non-use, it must be the computer
waiting for fingers to type away on its body
to allow blood to flow regularly so no question asked and
everything can return inside the source of exact, precise, possibility. Here
we must wonder what is the face of what cannot be seen. Clearly there are
attributes stuck in the mud, a mud-stickler rubbing surrounding noise with its body, bringing face-to-face whereabouts of a location enduring within depiction of a circular fun. While it’s
okay to continue to love someone, murder
certainly not, whatever it takes to convict darkness, darkness of
the computer as it softly ebbs away from conclusive decisions—where
moments before it stood faceless unstartled
by anything anything whatsoever except of course the flow of beautiful flowers, the beautiful flowers of what I thought you said. Yesterday stands around these moments, the one’s quietly picking apart sentenced confinements, the one’s Holmes
has been found by, exactitude of justice does not lie in the face of obituary, picking security out of colorless mud; not all things of intention eventually dry in
the darkness where nothing is used and everything returns to the ground of the body before it was blood or anything of flow as known by anybody and unquestionably it runs on and on unasked into the tunnels of non-return. Here
inside this sound of precision it can be seen from a distance of what is hard to see clearly from it, where attitudes have stuck their gourds into it, and have brought water of the oceans back to the villages of their imaginations to showcase the gloves of their naïve sentiments, housed in the bodies of the oceans, the one’s replaced by faucets, face-to-face in the provisions of location upheld within houses of urgently working neighborhoods held under duration of continued emancipation escaping the source of someone undead—run, and it fails, falling on its head, stop
and darkness convicted can take up wherever and certainly
allow decisions to alleviate disguises in order to mimic the soft ebbs of computer
as it gently delivers sleep from the screen of its blinking eyed-startles
to the faceless faces facing anything anyone can apprehend. Here
in thoughtless evacuation of kisses what was unsaid remains yesterday in the strands of stand-alone figments picking remorseless shadows with their confined hands, searching
for justice in the exact shape of their lies, lines of the
face an obituary of undeniable truth.


Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )


Connecting to %s