In our last symposium discussion of love, one of my friends started blaming me, “You’re a messy humbug like your sleazy words. You don’t know what love is, and what it means to the end.”
I applaud him for the comment, “Yeah my friend, am messy, as because love is a sleazy game of filthy words.”
Human eyes are myopic to see anything larger or tiny to the sight. I realized the truth lying winter field under light-fogged sky imagines your beautiful sunshine. You were larger to the morning and tiniest to infinite, when the deep-fogged evening silently appeared in winter sky to seize the morning sunshine.
Fliers are everywhere. The shackled lunatic wished flies high convince his family that he doesn’t harm anybody if they open the fetter.
Fliers are everywhere. The terrorist-gunfire suddenly blaze in the dark fly high after massive bloodshed.
Fliers are everywhere. My sharp knife whistled flashes in dark seeing that your lethal eyes flashes to convince me… love is designed by unknown to fly high.
Yeah! I’m trying over-and-again forgets the sermon of state head that we’re a great nation and in progress. I try omits my nationality sitting in a taxi and tried over-and-again to kick out the oval-faced experts to the memories.
I do trying to erase the memories of GDP’s, per-capita, shares and inflation to save your pointless greed to these, because, all these memories are masturbated by the overrated masters.
We walk in the fruit garden in an unknown gleaming sunlight. Garden is glazing by the ripe fruits. Fruits are hypnotic as hypnotic the garden is. Your timid eyes dance to see the glamour and quickly fall down in a glacier to hear the gleeful footsteps of fruit-chasers.
We walk in the fruit garden under the shadows of bewildered ripe fruits and fruit-hunters. Your reddened face is glowing now to see the shadows. You pick my hand, alerts me, “Honey, they are coming here to pluck the beauties!”
The garden is shivering by the rampage shadows and my timid lips whisper in joy seeing the gleaming sunlight. She is trembling now to think about the fate of ripe fruits and for you.
The fruit garden is trilling by the hunting beats of fruit-chasers. I press your lips to say, “Time is ripened honey. Fruits are mellowing for the hunters. The glazing beauties now trembled, because they will no more exist here. Time is coming to escape honey. Let escaped the psychedelic beauties.”