A Sunny Disposition
Try to carry yourself with some more sunshine sweet heart; for life is only a folly with fantastic fortune, what’s the worry? Remember, the good lord is ALWAYS WATCHING YOU.
“The solemn light of the moon crept upon the windows of the Dining Hall, filling the room with a contrast that brought forth a peculiar atmosphere, but yet, had felt accustom to us. A communal sharing of silence was to be involuntary instigated by the mundane, trifling subject matter detained inaudibly in our thoughts, then this awe inspired memory would be fogged by the impulsive input of passionless interest; serving no cause other than ceasing our mind’s enthusiasm to the reality of that which we all can happily simulate an embrace towards. “How about this weather?” said Josephine, feigning uneasiness and curiosity with her smile. “Oh! Tell me about it, why, doesn’t look like it’s going to let up any time soon.” said Peter, projecting a dismal disposition with his eyes buried in his palms.
Preceding this came the calamity, came the correspondence, to a world so oblique to the naked eye. Shuttering with an empty smile, craving with a positive incline, the hill had fallen. The light had broken, for dull entrance upon such composite gave for grass hoping glee, a cry and a yelp. Dinner had subsided. Here stood now our family, our friends of familiar fortune, to fix upon frustration; dull aching, but soft was the atmosphere now. Now, our instantaneous comprehension of an unkind reality only appeased our selfish, bastardly love of time. A time, a moment, so relative not in juxtaposition, but in masterpiece of being, the affirmation of that what and is. Bring upon a sea of sorrow, with waves that willow in the wind that only contrast with Mother Nature, the harlot of consequence.
Mother goose, Olivia, had tended to the acorns on the field for seventeen days until winter had brought forth a harvest of decay. Death was a friend to the farmers, it surmised even the most satisfied soon to see sadness. It sullied the silent ear to its tender, and closed its pores to those who purify expressionlessly. This crop circle of dynamic existence and being presupposed the life not to be lived and the sleep not to be slept.
Curiosity was the cream of the crop in my fields, survivability was the joker, playing dice with blind judges, and he scorned and danced. “WHAT A JOKE”, “WHAT A BAFFOON” he said. He shot his silver suspenders with the love of his life.
Inspiration does make the joke of the jester, and the laugh of the liver. For, truly, the pious and bespoke reality to coexist in our empty empire of dirt is of much disdain. To think that I am blind but can hear, to think that I am dumb but can breath, shows an opposite of who we thought we were. Be gone with the grace and leave yourself to the impulses of integrity, we will not oppose what cannot have arms, nor shall we take reason against that who thinks not.
Where does mother goose bring her joker? Why does curiosity shuffle contemptuously when approached by inspirations folly? THIS IS AN OUTRAGE! Sell the merchant’s hammer and nail it on his backside.
This year of troubles is not one that I trouble not. This age of assonance I sing with COMPUSLIVE COMPUTING CORDS. I WILL NOT FALL. I WILL NOT SURRENDER TO THE SILVER HAND THAT LIGHTS THE BLACK CANDLE. LIGHT THE WHICK, DEMON, AND SLAY YOUR ONLY HOPE”
Heath breathed his words upon the pages of his dead father’s diary, whilst whipping his face into a sunny disposition. For the rudeness was his rationality and red tape that consciousness herself marked the objective. His eyes were fire and his nail’s needles; his mind was melancholy, madness with a cute mask that refilled itself with wine that would quench nothing but his timely thoughts.
What was the rub that brought upon this bright day? Why did the sun bring its small hatchet and break darkness with its dull edge.
Perhaps, there was a new air for this young man
“GIVE IT BACK”………………………………………..
Examine my crystal ball that will have turned 30 degrees upon the diligent and 60 degrees upon the damned. Thus so that 90 degrees may mark a man damned with diligence, and 120 degrees mark a fan 4 times the shame. Thus so that 150 degrees shades a pale portrait, and thus those 180 degrees turns the other sheets. All movement, may only become, the caveman’s fire, the monkey’s banana, and the soldiers saltine. I have painted destiny in a capsule of ice, and brought forth it in flames.
“Witch, sell your thread to those who timidly disagree…. I see it with not silvery sphere, but with these eyes that reason beholds like a rose with thorns. What may dazzle that who puzzles may scorn that who unfolds.
Wisdom, guide reason to the door please, faith awaits him holding her skirt in a knot.
Word’s that come from the imagination reveals the naked beast that hides in the leaves. Words that come from the beholder shutter under a light. The flesh poorly partridges your meaning, stare at a lake, and try to fall inside. You cling to your damn life like a child does to his abusive mother. You simply, have no other choice, but to restrain your desire with a bare belly. Thos who quote have such a pathetic quietus, yet those who lie, live with such tremendous lineouts of being.
NOW BESEACH YOUR MAKER OR DIE INFEDEL
The thoughts of timid time ensnared my love, my will, my reason, with the doors that I unlocked with a key held not so common.
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