Off The Edge Of It Poem by James McLain

Like the end of ours is yours this one destiny.
Impends my phase and yours I green leaves covered.
I sleep off the foul rain the air and I from which you came
and I am scantly underneeth the face I am suffocated.
As in the record chart, by your hand I hesitate,
with you I find the time you limit Where I lag.
As for your thirst for cruelty there are no times when it is tired.
Your head is the carton of the love theirs is hatred.
Like the month it possesses the dark aspect of time.
before the historic times began,
and it dries your sea of silence moreover I am equally.
There is one final piercing of the first,
I draft off all your children in each single line is Satan.
Your birthstone is my asphault.
The riding in the car.
Operator of the thanking/apologizing meat festival,
which becomes drunk.
It is possible to count your virtue of that remaining finger.
There is an everyday limit in your brain capacity.
The surgery of Victoria morning it is complicated.
As the child when is attached,
the surface of the athletic field which you made.
By my very,
by my very perseverance you drink greedly is the air release the pipe which by you is thus inhaled.
You urge as the television of each network.
In all apartments in the land, it is burnt, you had lived.
We are the same, ' Hinase rare it is, however,
I have always forgotten yours my birthday.
With respect to other everythings,
I think of that it makes that intentional. Didn' Well… off the edge of it.