An old love of mine to wed the worst man she finds.
A blossom that’s bloomed, in a house that’s a tomb, trapped in the rhododendron fumes.
Bit by the Spring, Hurt by the thing, Plagued by the memories that it brings
And I've never gone purposefully into anything. No photo-flashes. No millions of pixelated supernovae burning off the gravity paid in full. Just blandly attenuating this liquidation, only this un-standard ebbing of all the thiol-glotted pragmatism that seeks to feel full and frankly speak freedom as tethered were true.
And yet I've been full and sated from the single step that began this. Free from a decade of miles without yielding or wielded wane of cystic keys beleaguring the phonics of locks stored away. In strewn from husk and feathered head, I merely walk the bounds in passing passe of antiquity. No peer in peering alone into the bleeding jubilee Janus jokes of, the merits she dreamt somehow while grinding away at ravened Joy. So it wasn't for any of these myriad voids, these casually spun-plastic echoes in sirene haberdashery, it wasn't for the creamy mauve skirts and staccacious lilts bleating just enough wilting pleasure to call and capture, indoctrine with noise.
I yearn for a thready pulse of Q. a slow blinking bandwidth jumbling time in all the tilts and whorls and cavendish equations oscilliscopes bloom from contrasted hue. But as we one wasn't enough for you to be coy and calm in molted milliners' work, black lashings and cotton crooned apologies withering whether without intention. Or no. In we was never enough for me to dote and lay by hazily sketching the edges of understanding, to blister in those copper lips searching for entirety from some panoramic cirrus wandering through a century of candled skies.
And in only tarrying we have already tread past. Forgetting sutures for some in theatrical thread bled grace.
You come fairly by and gone.
I in arrival meant foolish may.
Eight bags at the door now.