She mentioned being walluntorspearsed about me,
but it is I, who should instead, be walluntorspearsing about her.
I have flown towards the sun on wings of moogsmoorwood,
only to crash into the harsh leavened steppes of Inglesnegativebroten.
After mending bones and burghainboggles,
I found myself in the middle of wandering Wartanwursters,
drooling for a taste of my blood,
gnashing their sharp schneezers.
I have died a thousand deaths,
been resurrected by the prayers of virtue,
by the Hoodoo of Hearsaylookspeaknottooloudeoles,
and Wax Saints in the mountains of Fleurflippantistan.
With a magnolia in my mouth,
spider's webs spun over crowns,
and a charcoal circle on my hand,
I fly on wings of moogsmoorwood,
with peace, love and the folly to be found in-between.
And yet, she walluntorspearses about me!
Is she naive, or is she a Saint?
Is she hollow, or is she filled with golden rain?
Does she truly know wot she is biting into?
Ah yes, the questions keep moving through my mind,
filling me with walluntorspearse,
for I cannot quite figure out if she is strong enough
to face the truth about Grimm-Gloommers,
or if she is in fact strong enough to take them on -
to open my eyes wide enough,
to let her have a go at them without meddling in the outcome,
to prove that I can stop walluntorspearsing about her....
....that she may very well be stronger than I.
Yes. The possibility alone, already offers a calming salve.