A figs slomber

Only, no, now it’s me who’s got to give.

drunken dead stare abysmally realized in marionette springs staring back affront eras condensed in songs and puns validated as lines drawn in grains of deterioration one time unified in light condensed into many times chilled glass holding liquid and rum from father to son airy sprites given as gifts and donations returned as moral validity to procreate once again until all is the same on the other end from whence milked grains storm and swell brought to our lips new meaning until dogma reveals the stale significance of novel emotions dulled into a new sharpness altogether from the third man billows foreverness and the need and significance and the meaning of a line drawn trivially decidedly with corner and edges and lack of continuation for as long as its needed until becoming one again until the sharpness ages into bites and bits cheddar and gouda