The prunes’ juices dry quick. Corners come in and out as the box spins out of control. Sanctity from the sky purges the lavish slessev harboring impurity and corruption. Sorrow is drowned in irregular form and publicizes its stream to a destination, so arid. Gesture, hoo-haa, the dove sits on bronze. Wings are crushed by rusty chains, the feathers, they dip into blackness. A crow emerges, a monstrosity created from our own self-pity. The prunes fall to the ground.
~That Dude Eddie~
Please don’t forget to share this.
Love and Peace.