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#3
Harvestmoon
Your sentiment of sediment is rudimentary
Extolling loquacity you sporadically loom in me
Proposing propisititions predisposes perplexity,
propititious as an army ant, sailing out to sea.
Lopped upon the looking glass, it seems to be the key
The incidence of occurence, as sumptuous as it seems,
adversely tipples to the tune, of fond past memories
To filch away another day,bequeaths a quality,
of prophecy when harvestmen, crawl beneath the trees
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Holding onto anger is like grasping a hot coal with the intent of throwing it at someone else; you are the one who gets burned. - Buddha
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