A flask full of what I ask for, finally, a task worth swilling and corralling every spilling droplet.
Populate fate with a populous of optimists-- opportunists tuning the music -- fusing clueless, useless musing to fantastic classic grooving that's fast and elastic.
Dance in accordance to the sentences sense of importance. The casting is not ceramic but cinematic. Not pedantic in intent or contrary to a merry sentiment, just fussed up enough-- bent down from sound to silence like sirens blaring on far away islands.
Antics, yes, attics of those
Aromatic, romantic phallic heads of the rose.
Let's wet the shadow of rain with a transparent silhouette and call it reality. Not water but gravity forming normality. Same as veins flood in their own rivers of blood on the banks of home-- the gaudy oddity that we come from the unknown and are placed inside a body and grown. Though the actual space you take cannot be erased, just merely displaced like evaporated lakes in the crater the meteor makes, there's no telling what form the flown soul takes.