Vital crusaders in trees, frogs, sally forth against Moslem numbers,
pounding sound under desperate words, thru nights wailing springtime
green set forth. Sentence. The need to fight over walls of Antioch and
into whisper of century. How Turks fidget with crusading principle. How
long the years in the damn resort, then Barry Manilow sings of Mandy.
You are a child when the winds turn, frogs fall from trees. space of
night relegates to some poor furtherance. What's left? Constantinople
falls to the idea of Christian sequence. Friends fall on swords.
Grieving widows incorporated and the other things that loom in
numbering. Obama and Hillary demand to say things. Support our tropes.
The minor spot in the sun seems more incredible in dispute. From that
point emanates a deadly decision to render moot many of the seemingly
cogent arguments. We'll survive. De-authorize what can't be claimed
wholly. The picture is round, a room. It renders moot when rendering at
all. The colours assert earth and water, air and fire. Big deal. Hard
time is striking. Tunes dismay. Victims clog the ways of people.
Suddenly sunset. Tumbling walls aid the vacuum of history. What people
talk about remains sad gathering of only some things, not all, in hand
or when there is time. Time, the last frontier, until the Crusade starts
to make sense, upon infidels and such, rather than the way of land and
gathering. Provocative history in our future. Reading carefully with the
light of trying. Not a certain mark to note.
