Him

Nobody can earnestly say anything About Him, all alone in the clouds of disdainful dialysis.At the hem of his tourniquet, a singular hymn of doubt sewed in fancy letters of black and gold.Nobody can be.Him, the only arc Angel of himself.Made because of him.Maybe for him.Before him all the inhabitants of his tarnished glory glow with him a spiritual burning; a fire that seems dead, but like him through enlightenment keeps on breathing inside.Him, every wind and string instrument made him uplifting.Loyal and physical him.Learning to direct a weakened world to force fire on him.Like a prayer for him it flow like a song, an freshman and sophomore album remastered and made infamous in him.Weary as the pine trees that lost it's pinecones to the empty hills underneath the God of his whereabouts.His, shallow bay rum deep into the multiverse, but like him in scientific notation are candy apple red.Him, the Owens; the runes to high priest, Satan's clawing through the garment of the steep blankets of wild roses overgrown evertorn apart.His, dreams clipped away from the vine in which seems to be much too soon, before his chlorophyll of his skin can even settle in through the bottom of the night.His, history beaten down and betrayed, lured far away from the soil of his God.Lost him in the crowd: in towers of the pages of spells and sorcery.Swept him through the pillars of dawn until dusk with the sands of his mothers unclean heart.A hunger for greed inlayed with him for a her.Untrue to him about paper unseen or undone in or to or with him oblique asymptote building up in him high.The suspension like a cold war.Lime and rust, like old heavy metal calling out to him to purge him through gospel therapy.Quietly whispering between him in heaven and in the forbidden place that nothing for him should ever speak.Him, nostalgic the subliminal and unsaid blue lines in his mind across the dead sea.What is undermine and white as ash, in his hair of dreads of a tribal root.Ancient ruins the marksmanship seal on him he could draw on you.Raising himself because mankind has failed; fallen out of behalf from the disciplinarians which hold the endgame to the stars.Saving him for selfish pride.Moving him through December pod.Teaching him how to self terminate to hide the blood and bones.Hide him behind the cabin.Break him if he calls the one that brings him back to life and awareness.This is all we have left to him, a copyright, nowhere noway to love him.Pretending to show him affection.Foolish to fly him overnight down the river stream his hymn may become prey to crocodile.After while.After all of him is tied to stone, let it be perishable, but push him off the boat for his new owners to deal.Nobody can truly care for him.I don't save him for the day.It's not in, or like him to ponder around the aggressive tiger wave one so unplayable made out to order a watery hit for him.Like him he's going down for his hymn.Anointing another him for the consequences of playing around with the fire. A book of matches for him made for hire, to persist upholding close enough to the eye sockets to melt and blind the vision.Eliminate the possibility of him controlling the assurance of his God in him. In him lye all the secrets.Fairy Tales.Fantasies.Myths.And science fiction.How to abolish him?If you can even see him, give him a signal pretending to be just like him.Understanding all about the wild things with him.Maybe perhaps this is all a misunderstanding.A really bad dream of him doing whatever feels natural unto him.If I'm not alive through him I don't have to win.I just hearken to him ask him to lose in him together.Authorship by Mr Dashaun Rashod Snipes©Mr. Dashaun Rashod Snipes

© All Rights Reserved
®️ Him