The poem bleeds
Thus my poem born of nettles comes to it the fruition
If these words sound hollow unto you it bleeds
The poem this I make it takes the words from me and bleeds the answers out into the entry hall of commons where the city of the minions live and quake the words are sorted by the felons there into sections they must follow.
Linseed linseed linseed oil and common oil
Eating free fish without skillet without fire or flame of candle eating butter fallow eating all the flavor every day. In a shallow pool of water fish are free in the city of the century people in the city of the leagues are hating in there worthless heart in the city of the simpletons hating only mee. In the city of the dark.
The Poem Bleeds.
