Outer spaces glow and storm,
Causing bevels to and fro.
Élites spring true and disavow
Utter rubbish like it’s thorns.
Éclairs chill there, without a howl,
So a patron can just growl,
“¡Órdago!” and much a lot.
Under stresses, many a scowl,
May the journey from the cot
Arrive some day, as it has got
Proper sails, to a mighty end.
Ride the wonders of your plot,
Or be smitten with no mend—
Might as well your heart so lend,
Ere it numbly goes awry,
Since a spike’s no worse an end.
Slice this spell, for there’s no lye
Against the stains that make you sigh.
_________________
The red lake has been forgotten. A dust devil stuns you long enough to shroud forever those last shards of wisdom. The breeze rocking this forlorn wasteland whispers in your ears, “Não resta mais que uma sombra”.
Last edited by Spiderpig on 27 May 2013, 8:35 pm, edited 1 time in total.