we stroll the orchard
where grapes prune
and apples dutch
the burgeoning ****
of our memories...
we remain shimmering in true dusk. there
on the cusp of inscrutable lust and the chaste rabies
of a sliver of first bone
with tornado lips
and cotton
random.
we cajole our misfortune,
and rise at noon; without laughing -
we ****** our hags from the raven
that feathered our cap.
we elapse with the dead
in the basement of our rendering.
a little ahead of ourselves
or dead, no matter what.
the orchard glooms a demise
in the calm tourettes
of our syndrome...
both alone in the teeming all-spark
of our glorious sundering...
our Mondays say less than
our Present Day -
and a yarn of plight and sunstroke
gropes at the barb
of our bee stung
innocence
we chide the withering
for all the Withering -
and all the good
it does....
besides.
we wrath glide the plum
then have at Life.
Feb 28, 2013
Feb 28, 2013 at 11:28 AM UTC
we stroll the orchard
where grapes prune
and apples dutch
the burgeoning ****
of our memories...
we remain shimmering in true dusk. there
on the cusp of inscrutable lust and the chaste rabies
of a sliver of first bone
with tornado lips
and cotton
random.
we cajole our misfortune,
and rise at noon; without laughing -
we ****** our hags from the raven
that feathered our cap.
we elapse with the dead
in the basement of our rendering.
a little ahead of ourselves
or dead, no matter what.
the orchard glooms a demise
in the calm tourettes
of our syndrome...
both alone in the teeming all-spark
of our glorious sundering...
our Mondays say less than
our Present Day -
and a yarn of plight and sunstroke
gropes at the barb
of our bee stung
innocence
we chide the withering
for all the Withering -
and all the good
it does....
besides.
we wrath glide the plum
then have at Life.
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