Passionate

Pulling this wagon by the scruff of my neck, is like relaxing cross-legged on feeble bike handles. The gentle gusts of your hurricane dazzle me. Humouring the limitless requests of an oxymoronic cloud that swoops over your vision, second by hour, are the 3 batteries connected through the flat sides, powering my crowd of maggots. The pedagogy of every goddess' life without the gods; the arthritic juddering of a pencil after snapping between one's fingers that fell off; spurs that sympathetically pierce the apple after hearing of the triangles; wide-brimmed umbrellas drunkenly spiralling down to the epitome of existence - "Mercy!" screams the provided resolve to them all, rekindling its might and willpower with its insecurity. "What is the bread but flowers? If the orchid and the rose would through the solemn winter implore, Would we lie here in fantastical distrust? And when the clock is returned unscathed, will you cower in it's presence? What will it whisper to you, should such words of passion ever exist?" The sake has been forsaken, The sole has been consoled; In which ethereal distrust should this fantasy subside? For, in ours, I see a merely extinct world. And the caterpillar has started its pledge across the tapestry again.