do they not realize that these fools have always been the one to strike this flag of capitalism? it is in their sang, their sanguine flesh too immersed in these letters of bold & italics, bleeding a rouge that tears away this iron hold still so anaemic, & why ruin something so aesthetic, burning with the colors (of incandescence) of chaotic chagrin, giving depth to these mûres painted by the tears of its previous inhabitants, just to invoke a sense of new identity, a feat so baseless when these useless words invoke the appraisals of true beauty so unworthy; oozing with flocks of sheeps that have had their cotton candy hearts lapped up by the tears of this sad guise, because many things have been perfected in their original state; for even an old historical sword needs no garnishing to retain its value; evermore it wields even more prominence than that of youth's; liquefying the errors of this fallen roman empire (or maybe an islandic empire); in a museum of thoughts in which these intelligent nymphs would school a picasso over youthful talents.
so tell me why must people destroy the flower that has slowly began to wilt when it has not yet reached the apotheosis of this winter filled catastrophe? for does it not hold the value of what nature is in its' hands? does it not define nature in the first or second glance? does it not make us realize that things shalt perish one day? does it not make us see that things that live must go away? it drenches itself in this salt & pepper appetite, momentarily stunning as it does not hinder this exquisite lox; and it nevermore is ruined because of the ignorance of these fools, so hush lest you hear the beast of cotton wools.
YOU ARE READING
an abstract limn
Poetry❝ 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...
