Logged Lickspittle

Narrow highway.
Pacific storm vest.
A no longer red wood.
Green will come but only after
the fog sifts out 
whoever tried to remain.

I am teeth.
The first person failure.
Again, the theme.
Crashed out, not often enough.
Shirt fasts.
Bare tests.

I thought in sentences 
until the paragraph case 
was made letter by letter.

The forest was a playful place,
until we saw and saw
a civil human ran its race
and then the law was law.

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