It Is Small, Hot, Fevered

Be strong, and kind, in warmth, with this tree my life, i lay in this, hot blot of ink my head, that seems to cold, i moan, tremble, lost in rains, that pour in like a river from a brow, of satin, pain. I am carried over, i see other things, than it's dreams. Is it in me? ..It is in it....it is not what you think it is, is it? I will labor diligently, as always i have, in our pasts, lives. When i see you next, you will be confused, as i once was. it is was, riding loose beautiful feet through the gates, of grace.