Wound-gash of Character.

Gentle swivel on the doorknob again and a soft pat as I hear the screen door that gets stuck for everyone, pad shut.

Wormwood covered the branches of lichen as if hands were trellising their own worth out of the gloves of wrath of death’s door and the reaper followed to a tune all too soon to be met with decorum with how one speaks to another and seeks virtuous instead of cow paddy trash mineral gutter runoff that sanctified the mud to only going tectonic in the way of movement and solidarity amongst the crushing blow of repetitive loneliness.

A subtle demise built of smize and I made the other side blink just to know what it is to stuff the dirty sock of insistence and minor celebrity in your hometown while I mentor the broken and those who breach obstacles like a game a life and they too prefer the struggle to your dime bag of privilege that can surmount to frivolous quakes and even the anteater went home to the jungle than to hear the insistent peddling of those who think sugar is of the old world.

Try the dried fruit from the orchard of stone, and perhaps the wind may not be a nuisance to you but better yet a hope to a sign of nature’s fertility and irregard for the minor pesteulance some creatures pose on this here Earth.

Dragons do not dance in the sun – they walk. These days.. canned air was not presumuorous to this nature. That one was supposed to be free, unlike your hourly night broadcast from “holdmyphone”-TV.