I've left the orchard burning.
Sad, singed oranges and varicated fruits reduced to ashes.
The eyes will miss the green;
the respite from the constant flickering, disturbing, crimson, black, and purple images of destruction.
But I'll still have four walls to protect the brain,
though I don't know how long, because bombs are know to be adept killers.
The house is a mezzo, a squat and stout angel.
Standing avuncular beside the arboretum.
And there's my family, picture-perfect.
And a job; oh a job, where I slowly and surely I literally break my back.
It doesn't matter; it's all good; it puts food on my table; it doesn't matter.
So, everybody who says we live life once were probably rich, and their back-up plans were already put into place by their rich fathers. So do what YOU want
I'll miss the mangoes when their season comes around. Heavy, succulent. I never told my wife this, but sometimes when I looked at one of those mangoes, it reminded me of her breasts.
Ferocious sex-making. Hips and hearts pumping. Sliding silk ribbon off your shoulders. Reading stories written in font applique lace.
She knew my machinery.
Familiar with the function of every button on the switchboard. Swarthy. Coy and violent by turns.
Bite force: 160 PSI.
Winters - our adventure time.
Nights - our preferred time.
Every few days, the Havana Brown sneaked in our bed and mewled in your ears. And then you whispered in mine 'It's cold, isn't it?' And I always said 'It's winter, inamorata. What do you expect?'
Leaving the slumbering spawn under the watchful and loving care of the Havana Brown, we sneaked off. The magnetic pull of comfort. The taste of fire. Barns and outhouses make for great funeral pyres. Just before passion lit up, the tinnitus of raw excitement. Crackling, bleating, barking. Being reduced to their essences. The animals. But the warmth, so pleasurable. A matchstick and a liquid. A lighter, but a matchstick is lighter. Then it was all just waiting, taking in the warmth, basking in the burning of someone's else monument. My rough, rough countenance soothed by your kerosene-sweetened palms. And then it was waiting and enjoying the moment until everything was razed. Post-this. Back to domestic life.
The scent of roses and the flowers that bloomed ambrosial. Some of them were delicate, shy things, only growing by the night, but leaving the imprint of sweet olfaction.
And as soldiers of dark march with their paraphernalia of doom
Visions of a collapse of a civilization linger in their eyes.
Yet they march because they've got somebody to care for at home.
The voice is a static. It's a slab, dislocating. Or you moving towards it at sonic speed. An alarms trills. My wife and offspring, a redstone signal.
It's the enemy's warcry in the battlefield. Steaming bodies. Sweat and blood and hopes and the stink of loss.
Espresso bar and antique shops, candy pop, new-born puppies smell of their mother's milk. Voices of ruin.
And as the soldier takes in the mayhem, a tiny, ancient bell twinkles in his memory.
And he's back in the orchard.
Sad, singed oranges and varicated fruits reduced to ashes.
The eyes will miss the green;
the respite from the constant flickering, disturbing, crimson, black, and purple images of destruction.
But I'll still have four walls to protect the brain,
though I don't know how long, because bombs are know to be adept killers.
The house is a mezzo, a squat and stout angel.
Standing avuncular beside the arboretum.
And there's my family, picture-perfect.
And a job; oh a job, where I slowly and surely I literally break my back.
It doesn't matter; it's all good; it puts food on my table; it doesn't matter.
So, everybody who says we live life once were probably rich, and their back-up plans were already put into place by their rich fathers. So do what YOU want
I'll miss the mangoes when their season comes around. Heavy, succulent. I never told my wife this, but sometimes when I looked at one of those mangoes, it reminded me of her breasts.
Ferocious sex-making. Hips and hearts pumping. Sliding silk ribbon off your shoulders. Reading stories written in font applique lace.
She knew my machinery.
Familiar with the function of every button on the switchboard. Swarthy. Coy and violent by turns.
Bite force: 160 PSI.
Winters - our adventure time.
Nights - our preferred time.
Every few days, the Havana Brown sneaked in our bed and mewled in your ears. And then you whispered in mine 'It's cold, isn't it?' And I always said 'It's winter, inamorata. What do you expect?'
Leaving the slumbering spawn under the watchful and loving care of the Havana Brown, we sneaked off. The magnetic pull of comfort. The taste of fire. Barns and outhouses make for great funeral pyres. Just before passion lit up, the tinnitus of raw excitement. Crackling, bleating, barking. Being reduced to their essences. The animals. But the warmth, so pleasurable. A matchstick and a liquid. A lighter, but a matchstick is lighter. Then it was all just waiting, taking in the warmth, basking in the burning of someone's else monument. My rough, rough countenance soothed by your kerosene-sweetened palms. And then it was waiting and enjoying the moment until everything was razed. Post-this. Back to domestic life.
The scent of roses and the flowers that bloomed ambrosial. Some of them were delicate, shy things, only growing by the night, but leaving the imprint of sweet olfaction.
And as soldiers of dark march with their paraphernalia of doom
Visions of a collapse of a civilization linger in their eyes.
Yet they march because they've got somebody to care for at home.
The voice is a static. It's a slab, dislocating. Or you moving towards it at sonic speed. An alarms trills. My wife and offspring, a redstone signal.
It's the enemy's warcry in the battlefield. Steaming bodies. Sweat and blood and hopes and the stink of loss.
Espresso bar and antique shops, candy pop, new-born puppies smell of their mother's milk. Voices of ruin.
And as the soldier takes in the mayhem, a tiny, ancient bell twinkles in his memory.
And he's back in the orchard.
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