Mangoes are sweet, a fire is too hot,
Flowers are nice, a raining device.

Two eyes are as cold, as tales too thick,
To be told.

And shotguns are quick, like an aged old memory of rings.

A sickening joy, and all colors of a toy,
She's Counting the breeze, as my curtains release,
the breath.

And a history, who hosted, the castle of prunes,
Sang to the tune, of all spirited debates,
Now, Fritters like a meek and mildly innate,
Shape.

But, Partly, in parts, of all particles, in flux, starts along with statute of laws,
Of loss, and all locks-
As, Innate.