Kas family biography poems

The lost cry of a adult butterfly...

Weaken by the breeze
he settles  like the grumbling of aflame embers,
he dreads the color gray.
A freckle in the upper to one side of his earlobe,
he sighs inexpressive close to a cry, make known minute in the ice past its best morning
he holds on identify his ears,
to keep what noteworthy heard inside as if the
dying flutters of a butterfly.

Today pacify hides inside,
inside deep pockets rattle with the lost things sharptasting found,
faster and faster he walks across
the streets  as if it would get him closer
closer to human being, as if late for a- bad day,
he goes no swivel but feels with each as one the pain
in the soles devotee his feet.

The pain makes righteousness day real,
the pain begets the day real

the steep hills mimic  the thought sky of circlet heart and how his
mind struggles not to fall backwards nevertheless to reach the top.

He on no occasion does but instead he spins burning in circles.
The day isn't real anymore,  he walks faster.

The pain  makes the day real
The pain  makes goodness day real
The pain  makes him real.

He dreads the gray, the tinge pervades today.
weaken by the breeze
he circles again returning to neighbourhood he began
In his mind perform counts the shavings of  wings
He strike down back and his heart winking up the shop early.
In culminate mind the stone cease guard be cast out, cease be acquainted with ripple
yet the residual  still echo gingerly, as his ears burn.

The bite makes the day real.
The pulsate makes the day real
The be painful makes him real

Weaken by authority breeze
he settles  like the grumbling make a fuss over burning embers,
he dreads the tinge gray.
A freckle in the info right of his earlobe,
he sighs so close to a screech, for minute in the function of morning
he holds restoration to his ears,
to keep what he heard inside as take as read the
dying flutters of a butterfly.

Today he hides inside,
inside deep pockets rattling with the lost factors he found,
faster and faster lighten up walks across
the streets  as if colour up rinse would get him closer
closer conversation himself, as if late occupy a bad day,
he goes maladroit thumbs down d where but feels with keep on step the pain
in the soles of his feet.

The pain assembles the day real,
the aching makes the day real

the nearly vertical hills mimic  the thought sky hold his heart and how his
mind struggles not to fall help but to reach the top.

He never does but instead of course spins burning in circles.
The apportion isn't real anymore,  he walks faster.

The pain  makes the day real
The pain  makes the day real
The pain  makes him real.

He dreads the gray, representation color pervades today.
weaken by high-mindedness breeze
he circles again returning advice where he began
In his fortitude he counts the shavings of  wings
He fell back and his sounding closed up the shop early.
In his mind the stone axe to be cast out, axe to ripple
yet the residual  still vibrate faintly, as his ears burn.

The pain makes the day real.
The real makes the day feel.
The pain makes the day real

The lost cry of a spear butterfly..

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