The Bureaucrat Without a Sleeveless Shirt

And well, I see them, let’s called these conjoint twins famous practitioners of the most underpaid service there is this country. The one profane, in tenths of humility imitations.    I’ve carved frowns over the years on the back of my skull. There’s a grown patch of hair that doesn’t exactly allow them to see what is there. Yet invites them to unfurl and witness what has remain unbeknownst of them.

We finally reveal our senses to our men as the last drop so-only in-takes every word, every grumble that was spilled over the deck. The fresh waters have been spoiled by careless mismanagement. We plan on moving toward the bright glory. A dream takes us away brings us back, sheds anything of what imagination reels between the filtered gap. What lingers beneath the strands of cloth of our pillowcase?

Are we here, but they say or have told me they prefer to be dead. Do they have any clue as to what their in for, for insulting life?

They’ve mistaken life for this miserly dealing of things that don’t suffice. I know, maybe life hasn’t been so fair to them. There stories epitomized the lonely fact that they have nothing. Yet a time of mirth lauded by every squeal, scream,  downed and tossed right up off dried up throats. Almost like a sign of benediction, or indignation. Which ever, I find them half revealing of their heart’s contentment.

I’m locked in a tower, or so I wished it appear to be told. I have nothing more to offer out beyond the closed windows of my stall. It is here that all is found wedded between the crown for a lazy-eye. How poor the rhythm scheme derides me off the honing the Richter scale with new nodes of intellectual incest.

Death is the mother of beauty. A nearing to panic, or a state of crises can unfetter the wings of the majestic bird high in her sinew.

The night may teem with joy but nature springs forth with cobwebs of silk. It’d be so nice to see you drink from the sparkles of life, at least for the notary bleeding off his head waiting in the emergency room, a worn item of slight interest to the wandering eye. The bureaucrat’s  sleeveless shirt.

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