ModernPromethean
Virgin
- Joined
- Dec 11, 2011
- Posts
- 17
When My Muse Arrived, I Heard A Melodious Succession Of Sound
I abandoned my shepherdess, in bucolic rustic country squalor. My pastoral fantasy realm had turned harsh and pained like the songs of strident cicadas, the transparency of rain became opaque and hid the hawthorn brakes, and flowering vinca. My half-pruned verse was temporal, with sober hues of fleeting lyric genre.
When my Muse arrived I heard the melodious succession of equipoised sounds. " There is no one home in my world tonight, may I have your ears on cushions abyss" Countenanced in spectrums color, she listened to spondaic the feet of future tongue. She shook my crumbling fields and sifted my bucolic aubades, she held me to the skin of the globe and tempered my pedestrian. She enlightened me on the vertical invader as crossed the intersection of common measure. We sat in the Bahai’s Hanging Gardens suspended in lust and watched fall roar over the the yellowing leaves twisting down. One leaf suspended, deeply maroon, one of the leaves in the crown is old but finally weaves through, and is covered soon, in the winding of the vine holding past the summer's hold, one more season will alter and range, colors of clamor, all of the leaves on the ground are gold.
I abandoned my shepherdess, in bucolic rustic country squalor. My pastoral fantasy realm had turned harsh and pained like the songs of strident cicadas, the transparency of rain became opaque and hid the hawthorn brakes, and flowering vinca. My half-pruned verse was temporal, with sober hues of fleeting lyric genre.
When my Muse arrived I heard the melodious succession of equipoised sounds. " There is no one home in my world tonight, may I have your ears on cushions abyss" Countenanced in spectrums color, she listened to spondaic the feet of future tongue. She shook my crumbling fields and sifted my bucolic aubades, she held me to the skin of the globe and tempered my pedestrian. She enlightened me on the vertical invader as crossed the intersection of common measure. We sat in the Bahai’s Hanging Gardens suspended in lust and watched fall roar over the the yellowing leaves twisting down. One leaf suspended, deeply maroon, one of the leaves in the crown is old but finally weaves through, and is covered soon, in the winding of the vine holding past the summer's hold, one more season will alter and range, colors of clamor, all of the leaves on the ground are gold.
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