Cities of them...pumping preening, bent to task, of taking down, our only world with them. Steroid bodied, tatted freaks, with defecated maps, revealing something something, scribbled on a line...'this soul consigned'...ink out.
All hail, faux fellows...hardly met, whose palms are full of false and frigid shake. 'Perhapth you'd like to thweat...we know a thauna.' Oh, for Christ's sake, old snake...I do not embrace, nor lick nor lay, to suck, like some egregious Adam...in an alley way. Let me leave the fallen fame...of this lie, for a better.
As, if all is gone, and nothing left, nor ever right...the least of thing's...I do not wish to go this way... without a sunrise of the sun, an evening, graced of moon, nor soft light lamp't, to show the way...nor Jasmine flower and Honeysuckle's grace, to save a bit of what, was taken. Pray thee good...of all that's bad, in my alonely way.
Twins, there are, that suckle sunshines warmth...bloom full, in luna's glow, and no one ever know...angel's trumpet, called, and devil's Flower. One, it save...the other kill, and as those, would contend, should know...they share one bed, appearing...nearly same. So, in this hour of shame and subterfuge, one infant...taken and replaced. The other, wish, but have no truth. No matter what one do...will out, save...simply let it play.
Written by Bruce James Clyde 2016, Deming, New Mexico
Photo Credit: anniesannuals.com, Datura
