There were too many things to say at the same time.
So accustomed am I to the open heart, that I could not even keep its blackest blood from you.
Too bad, the bad potion floods into your veins and poisons the joy of day and night.
Debt, deeply buried in so many seams within the ground, fissures in great geysers spouting brimstone into the Heavens.
The anger that burns like simmering embers erupts into flame, flinging caution into the winds.
The mushroom cloud of consequence smother's the morrow's moon.
I've heard the first splash of summer rains against tin eves, and the rumbles of rolling thunder-fed clouds.
The comfort, the warmth but no desire in the sun.
A pink blanket. A stolen hug.
Yet I remain immobile, stuck in the ground, with only visions to guide my roaming heart.
Let Imagination Possess A Pen, And What Results Will Be Beautiful
