Scoot and make as was
Smell come in on the train
Then dunk in sacrone
Left at trow's ennui
All ours anchor
To the aching bone
Programmed without form
Programmed without sound
Austere known your pen
Throats inside of glass
Hanging next to me
Eyes all disappear
Gloss tones speak in turn
Chew in such a rush
Lands strength a rolling home
Lie doesn't hold mass
I found myself awake and walking
The two of you arrive
Backs turned to the spitting
But they have not a dream
No one was there
Look towards the face
Becoming very clear
