Desmond of the outer sanctorum

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These words, this poem πŸ™πŸ™β€

Lance Sheridan

The sky is becoming excitable, as I propped my brain
Between a genuine interest and a weather; these
Clouds, with their white lids and water over my head,
Dumped buckets of water much as a cream color
Into my piece of coffee with the intention of wishing
Me a good morning. The amusing side more certain
As the necessity never dwindled. Perhaps it was
All an illusion, which may not be peculiar in everything.
And very strongly I may be fainting: the perfect way
To accustom the thing. It took mercy and relaxation
And even a cloud strength surrounding my sanctorum
To decrease a holy mess. It is so rudimentary and a
Creamy substance strangely to mingle in my awakening.

The clouds pass and pass, it is impossible to tell how
Many there are. I did not want any of them, only
A dark substance in a morning cup, supposing…

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