As I grow in motions to my selection,
With intent to be perfected,
Forgetful until the mold is finally formed,
Owning the hands of the craftsman from means of surmounting the augmentable storm,
In dormant the supernatural of the human being,
Capable of seeing without believing,
Without hope unto thoughts with logic,
As spoke hurt spoken lies truthfully a protests,
Not of this or ever of that,
But to feel high enough to inspire then fall flat,
To shoot without a hoop or target for this projectile to catch,
The mind of this man the most dangerous weapon in my possession...
©frost
F