If is only the number, skilled as a swan: number two, which defines the pairing, in a numeral world.
Territory is everything.
The wind as it sashays thru all vision and the very hair of our heads, seems like a way to reach the ocean.
The ocean is a proud number: one.
One is deep as hell, high as sky. Match hell with heaven, give relief by staying rue. True is the sentence when it describes a word. Each word differs. One is part of that.
A strange word strayed wit the swans, paired in three perfect, until death erases. Such faith. We love our love.
Love is a skilled number, breezing across the water. Each water, named by its bound, is same with every other. All together listed and bred.
The swans are various and together, as we watch and as we walk away.
Territory is every, and every other thing. Then love, around the thing, describes a process and journey. Across the water, paddling slowly.
Territory is every number, every swan.
Love is a juncture, with every number, every swan, and every flower added on.
In just spring, that is.
