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Callous.
Everything is
Callous,
Callous.
Broken arms and swallowed swords
Turn it all to
Callous,
Callous.
You can rip it off,
Tear it,
Split it,
But it remains
Callous,
Callous.
Not Calais,
But
Callous,
Callous.
The Moon is rife with
Callous,
Callous.
The ocean in its timeless beauty
Is
Not,
For you find no fluidity in
Callous,
Callous,
For there is none
To
Be
Had.
And by these means we find an end to justify the
Callous,
Callous.
How is for future generations to decipher while they sit and ponder
The
Sins
Of
The
Father.
In this precise predicament, we communicate and extricate the extraordinary nature of the
Callous,
Callous.
We find no measure worth the ruler,
Worth the words and numbers spent
On such an untimely yet poignant and necessary thing as that which we call
Callous,
Callous.
Callous has the way.
Callous has the means.
Callous has the purpose.
Callous has the housing.
Callous has the transitory prowess and proficiency that man could never know
With his hands and mind so
Calloused.
And you can change the tenses.
And you can change the premise.
And you can change the opus.
And you can change the preliminary opaqueness of the
Callous,
Callous.
Yet
It
Will
Remain
Callous,
Callous.
This is just stream of consciousness. Tried to take a page out of the Beatnik book. Not a great attempt, in all actuality and probability, but an interesting read nonetheless. I hope you enjoy.
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September 7, 2011
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