Thought and up, the cusp pulls at the meniscus… here be pulling at rafts and bombing back again; a transect reveals naked truths fought hard to keep hidden. Nothing keeps its date too well faced with the dissolution of an appropriate inquisition. Welch says time’s a revelator, but here and knee deep an echo chorus contradicts in haunting harmony… what’s here to revel in? Must be mistaken; missed the point by degrees.
A fitful Pangur Ban (admittedly this will feign in facilitating a version appropriate for all but from here be tickled and no more; shave yer own) fidgets in the folds of a cloak. One heavy and far too for thy neighbour who offers a whisper less than a titter. The feather of a torn edge threatens to flutter faux in front of a lion; one not poised for receiving her humour. Bite hard, bite gentle. The centre’s set to burst in a tempest of dust enough to stifle even the most moist enthusiasm.
Harmonics, an age old, rasp the viscera of an ache. Familiarity, serrated. Its been a long… fissure. Absence like an abyss? Who knows? Few’ve survived such an ordeal with voice ’nuff left to romance. Could it be as simple as she says? Back to work and back to bed?
Less than I.