Tips are swollen as the keys click ever so slowly.
Pounding out sand. Crash.
Ever - endless - ceaseless.
Flowing down the space between the eye and the face.
Stemming from the roots that must be lye-d out.
Pouring it over while sitting still in no silence knowing,
It tries to escape by not speaking shhhhh.
Voices won't rise in heat if the heads won't come out of the sand.
That would be pointless.
