Definite Directive

Our day clanks against pharmacy, the raid of rules that send boon to wherewithal, under cover of darkness. And the politics sent from above, blasting microbe Mercury from disinterest: we love those awesome stars! Ageless John Travolta crunches the depth charge of incremental public fund. His next movie is the face of dolour. Down is disease, up is the best. To be a product of a lingering nation forms words on dull lips. I speak, says the last word, in its dull tent, umbrage filling the airwaves. We die (claims another wisdom) as drawers full of dreadful socks and as swerving points of limited light. Is this our catchphrase or will other words intrude? Our dumbass is tomorrow's wonder clause. That's it: face the music, and let the music face you. Tomorrow, reputed another day, seeps in. winds, when they arrive, will swat the tree here, and all its leaves, a telling locomotion. And you and I will stand here. Period, the front part of our life. Here, then, is where love comes into play.