Time and again I'm onto another page. Like a virgin, it gapes me in the lines and urges me to leach it with words on its bare skin. Pale. And I, with so much sweeping over my head bend to please it with a phrase. But before I could etch it I crack my knuckles and ponder. How would I take it if it clears out permeating no truth? Would I leave it in the desert or would I still make it holding no waters? Somehow I'll be doing it latently for once more. Knowing not if it lingers within me or exacts the way it should not have. But certain how I want to pour that I'd held up for so long but for not more than now. Time and again I'm onto another page. Like a virgin, it gapes me in the lines and urges me to leach it with words on its bare skin. Pale. And I, with so much sweeping over my head bend to please it with a phrase. But before I could etch it I crack my knuckles and ponder. How would I take it if it clears out
