Cultivate a grain

 Lamp on my head as I go these days. Fact, Side stepped I found while paying no care for grace. 12 round nightmare weaving for no true gain, while sifting rice through the hands of thieves that simpley come from below me to disgrace my name. The knee bending offering of a shamed face who will now punish himself for breaking the leg on the pedistol we fashioned as a seat, or a right of place. Still filled with wonder as a youth I am today. I can taste wind, see lighning, and smell the rain. I find in the mind alone I can cast down the idea of a generational stain. Those issues are backwards to a forward program, so drawing the line to infinity leaves no room for a landslide. By the skin of ones teeth is as much a chance as a soap bubble in a wheat field, or lie and wait for midnight to bring creepy things. Eyes stay fixed staring in-directly the bright vibe and thump of light, our smiling babes, the savor of conception and cool nights cryout with fire flies. So until later days good people enjoy a cup of bergamont tea.