Pomegranate ripe, insatiable appetite for reason and the myths of misbegotten societies bequeathed to sand and saddle. The prattle, deeming the inevitable eye sore pursuits and passions while fashions change and ideals erode grand measure. What then are our hopes on destiny as supercharged agents of plasma stride mordantly to capture one drop of innocent impact? With recalcitrance the forest falls in silence. Capricious men of plunder and imposed authority ride the distance to see damage complete. Ten thousand feet of rubbish for one Holy Word while plants and paupers weigh the tin of man’s gold wanton.

Counting the coin of departure from all that counsels reason. Lying, roadside sewing the seams of dreams that were better left bottled by mottled crew and happenstance hero. Exception painted upon the face of would-be Queen with lean understanding and negative depth for sounding. Mark it masters of hydrophilicity and sound trumpet to masters lain bare by barrage of those sans patience. To ward agents of porous nightmare, bringers and harbingers of dark’s silken presence. A nonce to guarantee the pathway to Light’s resounding victory. As the moors whisper and the bog stand quiet. We retreat in resolute posture toward the frozen obelisks of our repentance. Waylaid by schemes and dreams yet answered.

Therapy for the healthy conscious sake of emptying the sack to place or replace filter to filth. A spontaneous occasion left random by numbers pulled from repositories of hidden mirth and the annals of World’s yet born. We sing in promise to the wind that never answers thinking itself unseen and therefore unaccountable. But withhold the lodgings of promise and rabble finds residual romance a folly to be laughed at as hand upon hand the land is shaken by promise. Til death or the wealth runs asunder from under the foundations of our occurring reckon. Opulent white and Knight’s sheen to brilliance in undertaking though foolish beyond mixing spirits with sight. Into the whole of night we march awakened by the fires against the horizon we see the landing for hopes at half past dawn.

These are the lands of the unfamiliar, forgotten by hand or trampling foot to breathe in the ram’s resting. Precession a blessing of sorts against the warts of poor thinking and the addle of drinking we parade to display our grand punditry. Faking remorse we’ve altered our course but the horse to the bridle is chafing. A landing in crimson and taupe we slowly release the rope necessary for recovering our honor. In delight we enter this fight untouched by the weight of immortality for we all perish. In timely deceit the rest of the fleet was acquainted with harbors yet wandered. In games afoot, the soot of passions and woes written upon our freshly fired faces to replace the qualms and the psalms we’d once uttered. To war said the maid but we’d already paid to be included on the manifest to midnight.