The Drawbridge Across The Brambles

Memories are like motes, motes that cordons around some ever cumulative scrubland. Where little-or-nothing else can be seen except a stoical boatman swimming to glean. The waters statically between those subjects, The fished remains, distorted while recollected. The prison, the ruined tower, a castle's turret the blackened, charred bodies tarred on the palette. Tinged memories are flung far and wide everything is loosely sketched dockside the porcelain hand of love the dead poet buried when your heart was a minuscule galaxy. Still-big-enough to hold a world sullied and lower the drawbridge across the brambles forcibly.