i. later on, the cloying was almost defeated by a decent merlot
I saw, indeed, the beige vibrato of the ancient strings
and tasted, with the peach choreography of a taut tongue,
the crisp and dulcet rhythm of a noter's dowelled rhyme:
I was audibly assured with a familiar snicker of homey smoke.
of course, there was a dulcimer droning from the hollow,
amply spread on a seafoam bed of cross-stitch hatchings-
at that girlish moment, what did you think that you would think?
ii. when cooking home seeks another morrow
even drunk on the black sniff
of professionally burnt crumbs,
the sobering and cross-hatched menu
was snatched and far from offered
in the chilly blanched manner
that drives you to a hot suspicion:
the excess of vanilla sanity
is only practiced deeply by the most sun-dried suspects.
iii. the tragedy of escaping a perfect loneliness
when a wandering drone appears, the queen may reconsider,
if only to largely erase the monotony of yellow and black,
the whispers with the regent, on a daily basis,
the royal lapping of blood against the curb
passing in a flash, the splattered sliver of such
that drapes a shiny garland on the blur of metal now-
the frozen silver that was our crown
stings just a little in the cold night air.