Faded Houses Green

But only if she were a traitor to the secular river, Alf, and the blood that entered the canons of superlative slumbers seeking a glimmer of trim.

The parched soldier flush with violent victory gave over the blazes of bitter bards a puck of grueling flan. Retaliate, but don’t hesitate when kippered quiche gives her a don and a half. Virtue can only take you too far before a grog of agile forests lift the veil behind the Mount of Doubt–a redoubt, no doubt–and relented as constant as the eastern moon of Oria, transiting the nightmares that gave Mary the heft to throw her man’s weight back at him, perhaps for good this time–if anything whimsical were to come of it.

But the child remained bitter and took the tender twig to the glade where it sprouted a new whip of justice. Delighted, I’m not so sure.

Originally published November 9, 2023