I never whittled wicker fiddles while riddles belittle the middle class of ***** and elephants. Irrelevant asides alike another mother smothered by her brotherβs last lover and uncovered this summerβs eve. ****** β the reason seasons start arenβt propelled by a spell in my heart.
the spell in my heart you ask? its a dry spell for sure, it crackles with the flames of fire that whip out like the whips of elephant trainers, the way they scare me in place, and i shake with terror. but terror arises and smothers the way mothers have been smothered by a brother's last lover, and summer eve will still come.
Special thanks to co-collaborator The Creep That Loves You. Two poetic minds indefinitely greater than one