Harbingers are harping on harps — crooked.
Simple companions, my pants are salvaged because they cannot hold up
spastic cutthroats.
The wind is in a mild rampage, trying to shift the lackey's perspective.
Incongruous conclusions are drawn in in-shape minds, polluting dynamism.
Is it necessarily a bad thing?
They are venting and boarding, only to relieve the steeds, making them who they seem to be.
Taverns behoove me to think more, yet do not allow me to drink for all of the
sour cups in the world.
The devilish little girl has numbers on her head, beheading the unsettling readiness completely.
Unsightly treaties luckily do not apply to those applying for a race of non-breeders.
Braided luck and brainy trusts, try me in hopes that I will become a signee that smiles with glee.
But you see, I am not.
A rainbow cannot have a clot, though I wear honey as if it catapults me into another ray of broad day.
Locks and keys (to succeed) both compose the head, as dreading as it is.
Your birthplace is Nazareth, as is everyone's.
Many people come to cities replete with fruit, aloof of their output.
Input is not what separates us.
Maybe it is.
Buy anyway, any minority is major today.
Silence is becoming a shared ointment, paired with the inanimate.
Scandalous choices decide the future.
Curtsy and bow, only to avow your smallness.
Compartments hold elixirs, love letters, and subterranean practice.
Maladaptive is the doctor who is indoctrinating you with the notion
of mental malpractice.
You must lie between the brackets, in order to create compassion.
You must lie between the jacket and the buttons.
You must address the lies, telling people that you love it.
Mutual regurgitation sleeps on the outskirts of the universal onion.
Behaviors are flung in, from inaccessible and uncivil dungeons.
Okay?
Chasers make you escape unscathed.
Do you brag about being brave?
Plush bears bare what is missing, in essence.
I can reverse senescence; I can purposely keep them guessing.
I can keep them guessing, lessening current lessons, as the world becomes a current filled with my will.
***
Wine decorates the mirror, as you become sedated by the seer who hears color.
Here she comes, for it is none other than the tripper.
Please welcome her.
Albino annotations are vacationing, in the patience of ether.
You can still seat her in the parched theatre, with the proscenium being a metaphor for my thriving mind.
Will I be bored?
No! Tedium is a rarity there.
Cross advertising oddly coincides with crucifixions of the gallant, while you continue to ensue on the bosom of sample-sizing.
Are you capable of understanding the nutrients constellating themselves in a grand sky of amazement?
Can pain break me?
Can pain brake me?
That is a wondrous drawing you have;
I am glad that you didn't draw the eyes.
