Curling keys . A fork of bees. Pan out to the thoughts of temperature. Radius unforeseen. Ten laughing giggling elves on a trout trampoline. Policing the avenues of river and stream. While external energies arrive on a moon beam.
Twenty-six copper kettles sit on a shelf in a line. A horizontal view is never ideal in a cavernous vault of a dinning hall. One should not sip nectar of pea. Nor shout at onions. Tempt you not by the snow orbs melting on chocolate soup? Grateful to dishes are we? Great wisdom of cup.
Take no heed to jaded sperms of fallen ogres. Meaning is lost in an internal jelly of a plasma time. So go ride the tree then.
PHILANDERING. PICKING. PICKLE. PLACING. PLACE. PACE. PLUM.
Copyright © Tammy Lana Cahill