Fields

As my place quickly falls apart, I begin to raise questions:

How many truth lies
in what I was taught?
Which of the two sides is the side that's self-praised?

Where do I find my courage?
that, which overflows in them, overflows in you.

You say "run", but "How do I back up my senses?"

William's Widow is shorthanded, but proper for the weather, for I'm working on myself, on you, on life. Now it's safe to say they themselves are a blaspheme.
(Low-graded to bigger eyes, when they reach the sky with their hands.)

To beautify your nickel ocean, I can slip through the stream and darkness.
Blear-eyed, as the northman runs an ax through black wood, and as the ladies of the house bleach their misty eyes with miracles and wonders, the truth that whispers "the unknowable underlines through thick skin", if, and only 'if', you steadily cough embedded against melancholy candles and shoulders that need to be risen. Wind up and taste, half-heartedly. Unto my hands, quiet myrrh, coughed up to the shoulders, forever.