Unfinished Crime Scene Tourist

To understand our beginning, we begin at the end. The clues reveal the plot. Easy tells? We teach each other who we are, when we tell ourselves who we are not.

They said, “go down, don’t go nicely”. You are sold before you were bought. Slavers quarters and amenities, herbal remedies, green mountain forests. Rigtigadee rip tides a chorus. Supposed to be rip tides the main. Am I to imagine we’re all loving ten levels in the same enlightened brain? Hostess! I retire from the game.

Sophocles and his ilk drank mother’s milk on Saturn before the ingenues knew he could sing. I wonder, would Sophocles have work for his knees if Mars had written down the score? It’s not lost on me anymore. We are so far from what we started back when the stars were never born.

It was at Marathon when Agamemnon dropped the score of his sword. He fell for plank of wood, toes bound west. “There is no knife in my back when there is a knife at my heel”. Take it back. All black, all black. Please correct the wheel.

Heavy is the moon with milk for morning. Heavy is the sky for want of wasteland. Heavy on my heart, remembered man outcast in gold, a shrine for Asher.

Laurel tied with lace will be hung on your open doors. Stand still in the very quiet hour before, weary soulful pilgrim. The sea, the sea, your salve. Courage gathers in the grist. It built you a spine. Not Aeros, arrow, ruin, steeple. You temple. You ruin. You brazen child. You tempted fool. The watchers, the wolf, and the crow.