the promise of benign fortification

I knew I ran it far and near passed the limitations. Here in weathered rooms embodying all that is, sacrificed for alleged intention. Out, rattled off. Those scathing inner permeations, confined in their holy annexation. Interlude by no private fecundity, squashed from the door lords of the plight brigade.
The noise inside says come outside.
We were here once, that is what is tagged on the box car.
A trail of memory undead for a decorative musing or a skeptic.
But then we left the courtyard
And headed West. The island encampment meant we could spend revolving episodes of time in our longing.
But would we flee from the ironing, perhaps not.
But we’d make it our own, call ourselves probable fools.
Where would we go?
Only away, and not back.


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