Das Gift

Yo, yo, you my bloved, allways and forever called by time.
Writingg lives longer than me. My words, soaked with the tears that will dry, filled up our imaginations.
Das Gift of writing is a poison.

I don't genau know when the page will end. Forgivee me, my words are little. Less. Less is more.
my lovee, little can't be say, none the wiser.
Das Gift of love is a poison.

Yo heard beforee, these repetitions. A couple of butterflies that accompany the dead.
wiesowie a pair of thieves, aligning Grace, only one out of four reminded us that one is saved.
Das Gift of salvation is auch ein Gift.

My way is a strange way, wie ein Wanderer. Next sudden gone the twain, to leave me alonee.
Eins. The lingering sss of the soul. Say no. say stay. I go. gone, without the wind that blew me first.
Das Gift of Wind is its strength.

So on, the love stays, where the man is gone from. From, say gone. vanished from a presence, treeless roots, stuck where water nourishes. said gone. noch nicht done with yoo. Yoo the thorn, in my flesh.
Das Gift of flesh is its vulnerability.

Allways, gone. Said gone. Little left for the living to mourn. But life, goes, say go, where the going is the leading by something unknown. To say 'alone' is not to be alone. A reader reads.
Das Gift is the reader that reads the words of a loner.

I stay, think stay. I promised that before.
Variation of the same explosion.