Singing’s talking from the start. A simple raft would travel far. If floating’s swimming and splashing too, what’s an ocean tween me and you? Let loose that brush, that teal touch and the flick of a scant-clad wrist! In times of change the fools play games and look how happy they can be. Whose turn is it, oh me?
 Oh my, I seem to be a wee bit shy this evening, but see the castle rising behind the tombs, entire worlds inside our rooms. If I am a part of you then zen one and zen two. If you’re a part of me then grace let it be, some kind of crazy anomaly. what’s the difference? perspective is poetry like fishes and dishes. What am I mumbling? Did I mention I’m frequently stumbling but crumbling is scumbling an apple with a pie.
 Flame is one I often seek, it’s often where the clouds meet, or so i’ve heard, so say the birds.  I once had it and it drove me mad I spat it and if you looked right at it scorched yer eyelashes a bit. Fire got mad at the world, at its dad, blew up a building and chaos unfurled. The waters prevailed and showed a blind man how to sail in a dangerous world with pirates and veils. Water’s lost on salty chops as words are lost on salty chaps.
Call me Billy Brickle Brine.

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