Scorch

Thebes crossed swords it's rumored, so go last if you can bear the silt, and I will warm your ever ready yarn approaching the yell festivals. That endear us to the throats' design near treetops in the soffit mood of see-through fortresses. The better to be sanguine with your decibels, my drear. We saw the catacombs. We walked the arbor lanes. We treated selves unheard of to emotive linguists in the habit of design flaws better for worse tantrums. Mild dichotomies brand-named soft if you illumined flavor with a floss to ride across the kingdom (mine) intaglio. The broiler a lost cause.

Crimson lanes, a form of repetition, faced by the surprise of someone's maxing out the schedule

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Sheila E. Murphy | Plainsong
Contents | Mudlark No. 8