preciouspearl20
Don't sweat over it, don't fret over it. An exile of lover’s conundrum in the middle of a swaying ghost house. Have you ever harvested any good growing seeds? Deep down, in the victim of fictionalised doom — you’re always mourning/flashing over dead cells. A charm of spells, care to explain? A certain slime, of course. O! O! Don’t look at me with those eyes, passing over every bizarre adventure. Now, the silver moon glances back in a mocking stare, a petty lone figure?! Hush! The whisk of dark night shimmer with grey lights, you must watch, you must take out those barks of solemn oath. So here I stand, in the long night to wait for another signal, the buds: giving away their fleas, run, run, run, until you see the blue lights fairly, dimming into a dying amber. Easily drawn to the warmth of embrace, take me where you must grace.
kysolampis
It sounds like the narrator is drowning in their emotions, like their thoughts are all over the place. A bit like a Shakespearean monologue. I love it!
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