[/align][font=Times New Roman][align=center]Abiding on a cove of lone benthos lyed a modest fellow..
prying rose petals beside a topless kettle..
as wind stroked dextral across the fierce cold mountain side..
succombed to frozen totems of tears moped out in plight
The dear souls name was Al Ibi, a whimsical man..
weilding an interest in forging villas from grit in the sand
expressing his wit for the plan on a sheet of marble
sketched to tease and startle the eager tards through speech of garble
he would proceed this art to form a fortunate trail
that he'd stride across for hours with a corporate veil..
then glide upon an orca and sail,later to sit on a beautiful landscape
while the sunset glimmered as if it were krypton from a ruderal lampshade..
the deathstars proved he could stand bane,tho he drew sweat swelters within reach
weltering obscene about a duplex shelter in his sleep..
reminicing when his elders wouldnt preach as if they had less care to subsist
or even dare to assist in his fume mistakes,by unveiling fresh air through the mist
he preached " i am my brothers keeper,and guardian angel"
but showed no signs of loyalty his heart would sustain to..
feeling lapsed he squeeled and gasped hoping to ceil the scabs
that peeled his past as an unlikely swordsman with shields of brass
tears would mash onto the soil,where the pain remained permanent
he'd peso much attention to gloom,that later he gained the same earns adrift
confused in a blur of wit..he turned to our forefathers for input
and recieved a response that "if you smell what hell is cookin" you must have a grim cook
life is what you make it..no flowers bud from the riddance of soy grain
and mother nature would be more leniant..if you didnt avoid blame[/align][/font]
I'll be more than happy to explain it if you dont comprehend.
Feed.
