so, he says, so.

are we worth more than our imaginations let us know or is it possible that bodies break up a battle within? its nearly certain that we won't win. so, he says, so. does it matter how a phrase begins? and i say softly nearly singing a hymn to him. the head can only measure a percentage of people and a person's patron can only pardon a percentage within. equal. parts. so let's start - to question the final party, perhaps god and we can assemble to enable the perfect means - make measures - appraise the value - our praised predecessors have left us with - from cast to class but at what cost?


and so he says, so. how i say it is not how i mean. and men grow weary living within their means. and women grow wisely, with blistered hands and swollen feet. kept discrete, the heat - the beat and burn of self loathing and self with holding. the only illusion worth while is esteem. what does that mean?
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clarify the constant cables that contrast the picture and the perfect. take aim and make names for all departed, have they begun to fade away or did they even exist? please, I beg, i insist. what worth is left in this? has it declined, ran against time? the mark that's made me achy in the belly - the whole reason for the soles in your shoes, the soul in you - has been held boldly in that fortress of girth, whats it worth?