Swiveling heads spinning through cryptic nights to docile trumpets. Fleeting drums signals the new round for new partners. Heads continuously swivel without partners and without the trumpets. She laughs and grips tight his triceps at a truly unappealing jape of her new co-partner. The round is stale and the exit is swift into the night for tea and crumpets. She says tonight we will dance again and I will be your partner. Inquiring the bottom of his wallet for the coin for the dance and for his partner the beautiful strumpet.

Sweet honey on delightful peaches breathing in salt wind from fresh water. That’s the dream right?

Fame grapes dealing twenty-one every hand bringing in more silver than harvest of the year. That’s the dream right?

Cocoa berries inspire seduction to completion and hearts sufficiency. That’s the dream right?

Oak desk home of the silver tag displaying the alias and title yet truly displaying a decade of life. That’s the dream right?

Borders against language. Guards against the tounge like a mouth guard. Red lines too freed lines. Hopping the fence for dreams and futures only past the edges bared by blue and white. Write past the line. Fearing the red grants strength to an old idea and an inantimate object. Write past the red and set yourself free.

Obvious and hidden. Suddle traces of honesty left like breadcrumbs. Feel like a fool. Chasing blindly into unsure circumstances for the idea of peace or happiness. 

Mask and caves know the truth behind the shadows. The glory in lies and expendables. Honey and sugar keep the normal going through the black nights and cold people. Outcomes dim and plans shatter and the porcelain is the new best friend tonight.

She writes and writes and writes. I’ve seen her draw a rose once but she prefers to write.

Her days are long with no one to talk to except her journal. People always leave but never her journal.

House to house and family to family she will always have her stories. Wars are raged and planets explode in her stories.

Living on a foreign planet far away from this one. She searches through her writing, through her journal, through her stories to find the one.

Early November they come out. Never one without the other. Like there was ever a doubt. They are basically brothers. Retriever them from their hideouts. Just ask your mother. They will stay out throughout. Honey go and get your grandmother. I can’t believe how fast they sprout. You will never find another.

She wields her blade with force and is guided by justice. Eyes see nothing behind a teal rag. The blade is her eyes. A small scale occupies the non sword hand. Delecate and fragile as she once was. She is justice.