Possession -- Laynie Browne

Even at this hour you are mine. When you are not here your are elsewhere; traces of an ancient gallery whose object permanence, a scoundrel.

His sorrow was polyvalent, those otherwise knowing glances of trees.

Does he see darkness, a picture mind which taunts?

And so he steamed off to that book of fallen yellow
where all engines return when they are not busy

Detachment is that cloud he carries until the drenched faces of an angel collides wil unlovely sentiments.

We've otherwise perplexed the landscape.

Longer since carved a dream above light.

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