Forging metal out of petals of large flowers grown as towers, filled with people good and evil, large and small, short and tall. Orange flames ignite in furnaces, fellows with bellows fulfill their purposes.
Little children lilt hither and tither, and no one speaks of how all flowers wither. A fear that lasts a year that casts sheer, a dull veneer upon the eyes that all looked skyward, and the ears that scarcely heard, a single word.
I speak here of my heart, my deepest soul, the steepest tole. The gift that wont stop giving, the life that wont stop living. My brain and mind, all in real time. No one has ever came close to an answer, the equation eludes, a beguiling romancer.
The seductress is a cold bitch, she lives deep inside my side stitch, promotes doubt, increases worry, whips storm clouds into a flurry.
The visionary isn't nearly as scary, she helps me find my way. Her powers make me cower, but her hearts in the right place.
I think at next to light speed, a millithought becomes a stellation. I want more than I'll ever need, but do I not give due compensation?
At the top of the towers of flowers, is a clock that does not measure hours. It measures the souls max capacity, and sings the results to the rat city. I admit it's bit confusing and odd, but it's filled with the bests of intents. It has no intention of creating god, its the humans it wants to invent.
No comments:
Post a Comment