they say that time heals wounds, but this is not always the truth; for against the supraorbital of these intergalactic colors & the thickness of these archers' bows, they have not a chance to upheave or create an élision of this fatigue that caresses the zenith (of an instructor's walls, for in an instructor's wall there is the drawer in which lies the sheath of these principles which most adhere not to) for they are too busy ostracizing their chrysalis of magnets, so unlike these bountiful fears that cry with the waves (of a million celestial bodies); & this feature, these lugubrious eyes, they render the woeful incapable of touching the lid of their (prolific) self esteem.
in this jar of planetoids which dances in moondust shielded from the crying sun who whimpers when the horizon strikes him in his visage, causing the world a temporary blackout filled with an obsidian, whirling vortexes, unyielding to the pathetic whimpers of its inhabitants who then waltz blindly across the red carpet & claim to love their opposites (whilst their foreheads are stamped upon with the brand of hypocrisy)—for the good may be seen as evil & evil may be seen as good in this dreadful apocalypse we reside in; so we know not the truth lest we ignore not the signs, but this is an impossible feat for humans are the quintessential apparatuses (of ignorance) at its zenith.
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an abstract limn
شِعر❝ 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...
