Always the best man, never the.....

To pass in passing the night on traversing harbor.


Silence, the greatest of, like draped leaves on a whipping tree shining in the wind,
surrounded for want of champion, draped in the drops of fallen hopes. Standing amidst
the violent, before those professing to be of great proport, against that which would be the
grass of sweet pasture for the soothing of the soul.

So to pass in passing the night on traversing harbor, and this is best the man, a flower
plucked is best planted again, this is the best. To pass in passing the night on traversing
harbour is, when such a flower plucked and planted, as passing a red black rose
growing, and not moved, passed in passing the night bright then as at wedding place, best man helping
grow keep sake kept safe. This is the best of men and gardens groundsman.

In concrete grown the rose, yet in not so choice a place, those passing soon,
might destroy, for to whom in this, that if grown there would cherish,
so this is best that, in keeping, that traversing seeing, to water,
to keep sake, to cherish till, even the most, surely piggish might,
on lately seeing the rose bloom. That soon eventually cherish also.
A kiss from a rose in a terrible place, sweetest than, on a hill planted well,
surrounded by fools of weeds thinking themselves daffodils.

To pass in passing the night on traversing harbor stopping only
ever the best man, seeing that this rose in the crags and cracks of
hellish growing, that such a flower, not knowing any better, charm the devil himself,
with a kiss, without fear, charm the serpent, and woo a tyrant, and steal the
hearts of saintly born.

So this is best of best mans deed, that roses found in crags and cracks of
hellish suit. That even devils spawn should play best man. Saints have no foot in such a place,
neither do they have such graces in heavenly abodes, to steal a kiss of the rose
that grows and blooms in dark of night, in the fissures of the hard, hellish places.
An accident of birth, saints have bliss, we have, all that leads to the deep dark dungeon and then traversed
rapport of that flower, that once enraptured to the heavenlies, to spit in the eye
of proposed saintly kings, and make them bow down, lest they should dare,
there is no Queen of Heaven, yet even God Himself, might scourge the fool,
who would dare shirk the kiss, of the Queen of Hell.

It is a sin to pass in passing traversing harbor and not pay homage to that rose,
and this is to never leave, that each petal upon it not counted for grace and healing boon.

Fools rush in where angels fear to tread, the deadly curse of not proclaiming the Queen of Roses,
grown in suffering, blooming once in a blue moon, on the darkest night of devils black,
that her rapport might lead fools, to the heavenly garden where she may yet never see, and look upon the face of God,
and see her form, on His chest, as a tattoo upon it. And watch the lines of tears upon His face and the face of
all saintly men that waters her, for that is how they reached Heavenly places and passed her by,
not thinking to take her with them.

for Lisa Dickerson.  :this is how I will always think of you.