Delivered

Canny story detail with none a purpose: selves relenting can
measure zeal in inches or in miles, stalwart stanza weary
of what the landscape's diligence provides to its admirers, thinking
in simple plaintive melody and beat. The undercurrent flows.

Banal, remarkable weekly day of worship, its importance
receding in my happy recollection of the force of fatigue in
lovers blessed by sexual premises, exhausted on the boudoir.

God, I need a fuck. The plot implies by anything I write
may see itself as beauty and the beast (in lowercase, do not
consider that a reference!) dancing in the odyssey of kings.

Exposure bought the forays in ventriloquism, chock full
of tall tales, good for a single candy bar at the station.