Tatra and not tantra. A joke or a mime perhaps. The salient days that linger. The days that wither. The days that find the matter.
It’s a wispful spike or dike or ditch. Find the easy button and see. It’s not seen but felt. But somehow arrives. Let the days begin and begin further to thee.
Poetry and art. Art for arts sake and poetry for arts sake. It can always make amends when it fends and mends the fences that line.
Then line mine with the new and unfold the new with the newness. Find a marcabant staab and find the weight behind the matter. It’s left to the fold and left to fold. It creases and creases by and by.
Musical somber notes.
Notes implied.
Further more and up the road to the hill in the lessen and lessen of the bank moment. Was it this or that that left me or didn’t it just arrive. On a note or on a stick I find it the lessen of all values of terms of such. Such then and such then, may it arrive.
Notes upon notes and dreams upon dreams. A textural wave IIII that mends, bends, folds and arcs by, by without all things indeed can mend. Find them and find the buried treasure!
This without advance and advance warning is a thrilling concept indeed. Spark the advance and advance the momentum. Lets have momentum and lets have feeling!.
Competitions started I hear. Then and only then may it be, but………….laugh!.
It’s only when the wisp of a shadow or meadow that threads light might be and might be finding me self over and asunder all tasks of mine. The ones left by the window and left near the light. It fights and fights and never lets go.
Sprites and sprees!
Hidden books and hidden jems! Hidden manuscripts and hidden emblems. To the tee as such!
Lets find the mend!
It’s a world outside.
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