Photo by Richard Lee (Unsplash)

April 7, 2019

Running hilltops of glory, as a driving force for his crops, he still worries.

A star shines in networks, seeing the dark behind allows for viewing from earth.

Who’s star shines with you; all day hidden behind the acclaimed blue.

Blue during the day, grey when the brightest one isn’t shining away; who are you writing to?

The world; from an inspiring fool.

With words, an unfaithful rule.

Attention unknowing where it scolds, hold it for the tings ruling what’s past and told.

The fuck out my way.

Flying up the Rockiest Butte was not an issue.

Could’ve been the hilltop of glory way back in that story from May.

Ran it like I am it; watching from the nest.

Wait til’ I own the rest…

Butte by no dispute.

I refute, if you try the mystics take a boldly cry and be molded acute.

White meat til it’s alright to eat.

The watcher knows best.

One dead?

Blood bath only seen by those unknown fed.

An oath too, that dies.

The women whom they will as well see cry.

Writing from the nest to the people; forever aspire a hidden lie.

-Budd