With apparent appalling actions behind, all apostles' shadows fall hopeless across the millenia when confronted by the fall. Winged angels wring black and red targeted from impacts horizontal and lateral, the fallen's fingers pulling up father's eyes and tongue. Speaking in, rolling, roiled, hot and glycerin not withstanding, flat folded trolley type, she, then, active in help in service, in reflective arbor hues striped and ocean depth of health cling-wrapped. Not flattering, not needed, just needed. Every blemish a reason, remembered in times past, and hair weaves waves and eyes dart to match the suit, to hover and wait, alight upon this corner in strange seconds while or before rembering the unpleasant and pleasantly unnecessary task at hand. Roll out, roll on, flip all your switches in the beacon to beckon, but I am already there. Flattened, unexpected.
served up on August 2, 2003 03:37 AM
as smitten