but the words are braided in such artful pleats that now we are blinded by their meaning; an orgasmic portrait of a painting all filled with the noireté of nothing, but still these artists consider it a masterpiece of wonder & therefore stain my artwork with their golden faucets that keep spilling snowflakes too cold to embroider my talent, so what is this manipulative attraction that draws them in to the point of addiction (like the honeying of a bee to the home of sunset yellow, too dark for these demons but too light for this angels; spreading their antagonism to my incorrigible yield)?
as it is unhealthy to keep pressing for more words because at this point a dictionary would not suffice, would not be able to quench this satiric fever that invades the mind & spiritual intellect with the gore of a vermillion polka—there resides a deadliness not discovered, terrorizing me from my wits end, placid accent too difficult to uphold the values of this crescendo, but i will lead my army of words against such evil & bring the end (to these carnivorous seams endorsing the love of the bystander who dances to my tines), lest it blesses my golden heart with haemoglobin so rich in agony than oxygen, & brings me to fall into the lap of another grinning fool.
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an abstract limn
Puisi❝ but this time i will not be lifted from the realms of this catastrophe, this time i will be dipped into the honeyed lox of this saccharine thought; drowning in the depths of the wilted tulips that have not ever to sprout. look at these alstroemeri...
