If You Were a Mirror Where Would You Point

Oblations, my threadbare darling, a farthing from red breast nurturing. Further the cleats of czar points striping the daylights out of crimped leanings still piquant along the allocated intervals mild white. Who dements the silver needled in the yellowing scrapbook. Lingering crops the forte of luge painters prone to gray the sleek flight. 

 

Descendancy mires the Olympiad past purview just at the blanch wounds pound the pavement meant to savor judicial props. If you were a mirror where you would point. Not to the least sum of shares about to take flight without pending case law thought far from dribbling to the basket of the knitting club from around the world. Purling curvaceous storks for forthcoming betters betting on the thrum.

 

Who chafes the moment about the be undressed in the headlights posing as a full moon. The drawn lines compare freedom to latchkey kisses let go into malarkey tucked into rhet and comp. Curds and whey. Along comes the whistle of a tea kettle to tighten the fray. Is this what you fought for in the cuddle-free zone of slipknot patrol. 

 

All eyes on the testament writ large on an outdoor movie screen to the tune of popcorn chews and tuned car radios of the few still following the social mead to baptize the furtive claiming to be in need.