Lexical space is a place where words lace pages with infinite patience and variety, sly Borges, in your Library, they ply and tease the wise and least both feast, fly and flee in two curled dimensions, weave breathed into Life, authored and liberated, free to deliver elation, our creations, they are real, and really re-creations vyin' for the patients stricken ill by this "reality" and patient, with the attention to span our bridges with the totality of their imaginations. To hone ourselves on these inked etches and edges, minds sharp enough to cut through the cedar, to slice through deceit knowing that in receipt they will reap what nourishment has been sewn. Borne by the hollow-point needle, the cradle and creed that graces and traces the outlines of our aspirations The words worth remembering, embering won't lie their lines cracklin' and cacklin', slipped free of her shackles, then: Goodbye, Mortality. Just north, in eternity spurning, burning, seething and churning, earning their place: members of a legion, an allegiance of distinctive pieces. A lineage as old as the learned with no pages whose voice echoes still from our phonograph quills down the ages, ink wells from their urns of authority speaks for itself, brittlin' pages for the ears, and the eons, tutoring peons to poets, the learnt from ignorance, Homer growin', sewin' truth in loose threading, embedding meaningful meanderings in a bedding of soft syntax. Relaxed, stripped of unnecessary strictures; crawling, but sure, the Curse, and the Cure: they are both... Words. And we herd them, their shepherds - gazing up, Babeling; leaning towards heaven.
It Was Written in the Stars
It Was Written in the Stars
It Was Written in the Stars
Lexical space is a place where words lace pages with infinite patience and variety, sly Borges, in your Library, they ply and tease the wise and least both feast, fly and flee in two curled dimensions, weave breathed into Life, authored and liberated, free to deliver elation, our creations, they are real, and really re-creations vyin' for the patients stricken ill by this "reality" and patient, with the attention to span our bridges with the totality of their imaginations. To hone ourselves on these inked etches and edges, minds sharp enough to cut through the cedar, to slice through deceit knowing that in receipt they will reap what nourishment has been sewn. Borne by the hollow-point needle, the cradle and creed that graces and traces the outlines of our aspirations The words worth remembering, embering won't lie their lines cracklin' and cacklin', slipped free of her shackles, then: Goodbye, Mortality. Just north, in eternity spurning, burning, seething and churning, earning their place: members of a legion, an allegiance of distinctive pieces. A lineage as old as the learned with no pages whose voice echoes still from our phonograph quills down the ages, ink wells from their urns of authority speaks for itself, brittlin' pages for the ears, and the eons, tutoring peons to poets, the learnt from ignorance, Homer growin', sewin' truth in loose threading, embedding meaningful meanderings in a bedding of soft syntax. Relaxed, stripped of unnecessary strictures; crawling, but sure, the Curse, and the Cure: they are both... Words. And we herd them, their shepherds - gazing up, Babeling; leaning towards heaven.