Up from broken bearing does spring settled the wide-berth of deliberate mind. In swells, off course a song of sweat set sailing to this tiny track in time. So small are rivulets, the frayed ends frightened to resolve a salient form. Through life, a son erects a favored will representing all passion long since born.
I do not believe in the cheap trick and I would not say but that it needs to be said: far more unsettling than the predictable end is the reflection of us as we live.
The mirror woes and the mirror waves, present unsettled constitution in sedentary haze. Poor boy! Poor us for living. That he might know pain and pain alike, and that hate is forgiven. In every moment a reflection. In each a rattled nerve less sense, scant affection. Poor life! Without meaning nor worthy lament. Grant that we might blanche, not persist and persist; yet from birth defiling only innocence.