something rain in the middle

there’s a clop ticking dowse, shredder you just well
jack shoemaker, honestly, unless we hear a bell
into a mood transforming slowly
from the occasional cut scene
as an actual persuasion
rather than a glean

in the startles in the woodpile, early in the mud
something like a dancing eye open/close to crud
conveyed in the beating
from the traditional routine
as an actual profession
rather than just mean

lost amongst librettos, buried under a grey lie
lauded as a human, panned widely as a pie

to the
played by one
with its
why not just
not just
not just
not just
as
pie

something plain

in the middle
of the middle
of the middle
our rudeness at the edges
of the field where they die

to the
said bye gone
with its
eye of dust
of dust
of dust
of dust
to sky

something rain
in the middle
of the middle
of the middle
our rudeness at the edges
of the field where they die

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