"and the cycle spins like knitting needles in circular basket weaving grace as they tip counter to clockwise finding beginnings through a very own spirit blood to booze used to be the never run out candle all light shining even in dark corner despair can't shake existentialism in the middle of a bender and the days flipped away and my mind thought more and more of touching any liquid to again howl at it snarl at it growl at it deep in breath holding it in and letting it out at it under the shine if i could gather myself
outside to be under lighting long enough to recognize its feel like a poem a poem hanging on to the snarl of a piercing thought a poem like a snarl"
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Snarl like a Poem
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