Believe when drunken butterflies fuel: a burst of iridescence over furred fields where the blue tongue of anemones leer; and fever of shadows sting. Trees adorn their pristine bloom, rapt and oozing orange sap beneath the provident music of birds, that seem in well-churned skies something like troughed blood to freshen upon first-light; a mirage, if mirage was to be recognised in its overt density through the remote glass, young roots of oleander foam with our sharp tears.
Fierce as prophets, cleansed not perished in flame, draped in the fine splendours of their androgynous youth, the forsaken outlanders unearthed, come praised, stylized, reputedly indestructible, assisted by various auguries toward an imminent fortune where common man is left nothing but the shaken air of his ruin.
In three forms Two thirds; Still, Not to drink a drop, or two pots for bath. One-third in Coco cola bottle, One-third is in the Cleavage water, Then, we are throwing stones at the well, Waiting for the crow bath;
Change is happening rapidly. It will only seed up! Humanity’s in the grip of explosive rearrangement. How we handle it will be interesting to watch. Some will get involved, attach it to themselves. Others will pull away not wanting to