On Method -- Mary Margaret Sloan

The facts, in a flood, are twisted; imbricate clutter: fate, property or
right? Assume nothing within this tiny device,
a line of defense straight ahead, conceptually straightforward.
A simple declarative sentence has its sound
seeking guidelines (ornate, palatial),
solve for excess; here are we.

The reflection of one or both is less than unity,
a just solution,
it's a wash, for shaping the future. Restless techniques
console us with passing notions; before is a heap
of remnant forests, after is a field
of furious winds. Bluish, glassy,
melting in imaginary numbers' retreat,

the succession of negative vistas runs; in the following expression,
the guide's expression is fantastic, stopped with a look.