Deranged rocks, spread in albeit magnetic threads rattle the sky's mirror with impatience. Lay her feet on the ground, the young girl did. The touch of her soft, dampened scarf kindled the metamorphic calm.
My veritas found its unwanted shrine-- The dreadful peace that let it dine, upon the well-being of its host nest its swine. The ****** amalgam in her eyes led its produce down her wavy brown vines. They hid her cheeks, and brought down traited drops of long-withheld tangy crust towards the lavender ascot.
She grabbed onto her feet, warm and wrapped with white cotton and wool heat... she caressed the ornamental fabric, swerved her fingers along its threaded magic. Their lacy innocence familiarized her and made her smile, whence the memory of her veritas triggered in her mouth's isle.
She lay her hopeful eyes on the silver-nitrate clad scarf, covering the now-calming rocks' quaff. Of my reflection her face saw only loss, for her recognition seemed forever trapped in virtuality, in moss.