Cinnamon
They heavy handed the spider a redback, shale splayed to ground the effervescent purr, those flowers came swollen with silvery cinnamon. Compilation mapped to have love for another placement, the flower, to reside in conversions of temporal eternity, corollary exemplar of a lusty posey, fragments of golden ailment, those prints lasted the game, we were recovery beings of torment.

Cinnamon was reminded to have gifted, in chase of afterthoughts, they ate the ageless shale platter, we drove to the nearest vendor, recalled how our lies did not shape out the silvery wrapper, could only have one, if they awoke. Tasted of gratuitous hunger, the expulsing soldier unarmed his intentions, recollected there were no charge, the night played many unmatched words. They offered after my meagre exposure to alight, gifted them you, seeing the damage of tasting cinnamon, cloves or the rasping plight of interjection.

The roomy hall, hallowed to entries where I were to protest, winter made by the historians conscription, it had a place forgone, to remote the pending, saturated syringe viable, depressions the paint of decibels felled. The rounding plate contoured those missing years, the kids livery to a heiress, winters solitude to my caressing effervescent cavernous creator, Sanskrit wrote to my prescript, describing to the letters of intent. Progressive #writing