"H G M C. Hope Grape Makes Crumbs. In Liberty's grip gripes a slave and slave master's kid lost in the lights lighting its ways while brick-walking through a jungle of grunts. It lacks foresight, deforests in heed of insecure men fronting as farmers but are simply a herded bunch. Directions are a record in Liberty's grasp, the stable woman that doesn't participate in speed rather, movements of water making her turtle each dream - art class shrugged. Shaking off capitalized paths that broaden starts, turning finished lines into narrowed tracks recording every last verse crunched. Tardy arrivals means the turtle's eye lashing is the last brush that alters the painting of the tip of a pyramid into an hour glass, parched. Granule storage bins make rabbit senses hyperactive and turn into a flurry of activities as if urgency made planting and seasons match. The perched bird watches these comedic routines recorded as passageways but only lead to obsolete stilts that a shelled animal picks up as its harvest cane in the nick of heat, weather graphed. Dried grains protected from being emptied by those of a haste to prose, reproductive tales, so these stanzas are that plug for the sturdy lady's bird catch. Guarded harvests starves thieves revealing cravings of some somewhat odd things such as an adoption of identities written on a graveyard's thumbs. The ruler of all things equal, she drinks from the only cup that gives up its half so as plants can bear fruit free to maneuver through cracks and see what all grounds have to offer when given her drums.
Mitishamba ~ she keeps her sand glassed in sleeves
"deserted green garden"