I think it may be leaking; felled, spiral towards the well.
I’m looking into leaving.
My shell. Behind. It’s going out of season. Sew now
I’m all the bearer, light tug string, you kite, the fairer.
Mean to catch the wind, just an average of the limn.
Skirt around the reason, it don’t surpass the meaning.
Most things, been seeking; scaled to more import, than m’pell.
Taken off my feet by blinkin’.
My eyes. Blind. Easily if caught mid-flight. Sew now
I’m all the rarer, no mold to huck or hold, pairing
both hands in cliff like grip; to ensure no use of a relic, no.
Meant to catch the sun, stay stuck rock no boat to wave, I’m done.
Almost sure that,
I meant to catch your hand as you passed.
Though siren do tend to distract,
knack to knot, again. But link to lief
is thin. This.
Scarcely full and fruited tree, don’t forget what you see in.
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