A Dialect of Self Proclaimed Hate

The passion to which has engulfed my wisdom. The tedious statue of the isolated and the freedom. The constant bustling to other places, the continuous stepping on other faces, differences begin to unravel into the exact same cases. A dialect of self proclaimed hate, with an anarchy self detonated it is easily considered a series of fates. A tall tale told to catch the eyes of passersby, the time has passed and nothing was worth the buy. The heavy hearted agony of suffering from a galaxy much like this one. Thoughts of the pain are out of this world, but it is merely your intellect drawing conclusions from things you don't know, but dream about, to soften the blow. A gala event, to last the ages, your heart may be prone to give out before you age, choices and decisions, a lost cause on burden and ambition. Flames that won't quite catch, the attire of the things that so needy be burned and turned to ash and float around the sea so that seagulls can pinch and nibble on the remains of the things you want to no longer carry around on your coat tails. The same coat worn for shelter in the verbal bashing of all you stand for and the swift memories of all that is potent distending and dancing into oblivion. God speed said the immortal soul who calmed nothing and had nothing and therefore loved everything, because there was no where to go and nothing else to do but love.