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Sacred Empty Nest of Death

Updated on April 25, 2016

The Rub

Never a death that was, never one to be, never one time that it all is then in the time that was never before the light when energy was the measure that none had created and then the safety of a four chamber gun missing two laws was the gallop that horses hear four times before. Then they knew that a rapture was the cry of life once, the first look into the soul of life and it was echoed to the source.

It was them that scared the truth. It was innocence in an age of infancy in the houses of murmurs and whispers, that a body of work could write a world or a man, in a dual nature of life. I would not be that child, nor the hand to hold the life in lifeless beings of no death, in revolving cycles of constant being. A gift to my crossed family. That they knew the call of cardinal signs and willows that weep in the lost powers of sold magic, then they say lust for my paid loneliness at x dollars a crack. gallop, gallop, gallop, and gallop went the gelded fleece.

Had four snakes, then in two chambers think and two thin pumped life into the seas that meant the veins of life, like the branches that feed the delta once. I could rewrite the Earth in nature's grace had I the desire to be in fight with the vastness of nothing, scared not even privacy and that my own priced home. Never mind that the sharing was a gift, and the eyes of the back of your mind were the Tom's that alleys once found mating rituals less than public.

It was a question. How many heart beats are in a liter of eight with the mother and father and worlds around, if that was sacred then ask your Heart if the right lifts the left to the dextr.cardia or piggybacked transplant beat. It is congenital sometimes, lack and it is the rising sun sometimes to lift in the morning.

They had bodies of their own once, and then they are called more or less than tubular. In a handful it was the land that more that echoes listened, like a seal of valve not closed. Leafs let flow happen sometimes, and then the rub a dub peter patter of "so called help." Kills the beat and you lose a step, or a skip in the beating union and transfused knowledge of the life stolen and never lived. Live in the inside of the lives never lived, and see what the pressure is when you sit in two or more chambers of art.

Sometimes they carve butter into hearts, some melt like the mind in love and lust of sweetest in the time that time never sees, yet the body avoids. It is the list that never happens though, the cruelty of judged eyes and horses breeding stocks and sized pistons. It is the rare one that sings a whore a whore and a door a door, even when the red hand of fate was palmed by witches and charlatans. It was a red carpet anyways, one day. No whale hunting with harpoons ready in this land, the constant spirit of no birth is string-less, no muses.

So much for unicorns that loved magic and the hearts that wings sheltered in any type of weather, and storm to hold down the storm chasers so they would not in dreams be unreal and none to hold my weight. They have left in all the life, the womb beat, or womb man, heart beat to give this hand a greeter for the door, or be the mat for their feet, like the hollowness of them in the asking, "Change your heart beat for mine." To misquote all that never stated that nor asked for what could my heart do to beat as one in yours, then the four to four is eight and more, in the mind that had fallen too.

One unicorn, less the magic of them never holding pace to my beat, a few had crawled that mountain and bridged my heart never to be again. For the judges had their need and they themselves the original carpet munchers, and farmers. In all the great houses of life. All of origins of lust in the beginning, sad I saw it here the most in the colors i had thought would support freedom. None do, they on their world are in turmoil now of their own judged hand on my life, see their hearts mind at work for their needs and wants.

That animals have coldness in the human flesh is a cry yet they had in their teachings wrote about sober hearts, and lied to the sins of the first ones, beyond the Libraries gates and in the house that I would sit one day God willing, or please to be a companion in. Loose heart searchers to watch for or to check on progress to be sure. I gave even the trees a heartbeat with tender care in their role in teaching, they bared their sacrifice in eons of lifetimes.

Stael the words, seed your hatred. I am still Steven Philip Lindquist, even if their are many of us. You can take words, worlds and thoughts but not my mind which you are not touching since it is off world in storms of another house.


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