¿Que?
To draw it,
And to pull it,
To wrangle the idea
It's glorious, no doubt,
With the whip of my conscience.
But joy has its reins and reigns;
The moment winter greens for spring,
Through the crack in my subconscience.
When the flood becomes conqured by drought,
Where everything forgets itself for all time.
I know thease things to be, though some wont not.
Taken from my mind to stuff into a chest of dreams,
That witch I most desire is to varried to come to light,
Yet to Loved to be dropped from the depths into nothingness.
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