Improv Post Five Week Eleven

This is an improv off of "An Engraving of Blake" by Mary Kinzie. I picked a couple of bits of language and put them together.

A roof of tears can only find themselves
when the rivers of smoke falls into a boly.
If you only knew of forgiveness or of ceilings
that were low enough for earth.

Air can breathe climate into a beard. But
when I think about it, you try and I yield.
Casting us can only become dark,
and dark runs into proof in the field.