In the town culling clean vogue, we set out to find a discreet leverage. Like the moment that wrestled with the momentum and the lute that sung of the sting in unison.
The place has seen the vagaries that count the behemoths into the slurp while the treacherous tribe downs under the door another weather.
It has seen the west gulp its sorrow, like the cripple awaiting his nose to swallow, the bitter silk woven truth tripling its essence by virtue.
No clown has seen the yell of the aunt, who of course had her hair spun in a yarn. So suggest the tunes of the by lanes. So fell the lattice into a mongrel.
The clothes have bought themselves a human and the bones have wrought themselves some vessels. In the little time that rests there are obvious placards.
How contemptuous the creek says of the crown who caught a cattle?! In the supple said sorority, the feathers have fed the fire.
Who amongst them will reign their truth? They have numbed my little red riding hood. Such is the fear of the crows that the twigs have reached the thoroughfare to hark at the passers by.
© Prateek Joshi and WordPress, 2018