I concoct a something: impudent beguiling filling.
A gruel of worldwide peace, an intangible taste, a bliss
For gustative papillae that crave a utopian cornucopia.
Yes, yes, as a witch I crush with my pestle the blocks
Of intrinsic animalism, of concealed vanity,
To create, those all’s that generate the easier-assumed
Tasks of destruction
*Pursued to annihilate the flaccid gust
Of tedious, unproductive, undistinguished life*
In risible thoughts as ‘If I died in a fight, as a hero I’d rise’.
With prescience, I will slither over the ambush
Of the poltroons and buggers who attempt to evade
Oh, soon I might need a repose, but firstly finish the retort
Weaved in draconian sentences for the greedy ones
That map out lewd recuperation.
Dwindle, I dwindle the vicissitudes that take out what is
The worst of the most.
I manumit the serenity from their charged with latent rage
Shapes. I know, some is ejected out of iniquity
But the unconstrained liberty
Signifies a willed, good choice in spite of ambient thorns.
Blow, let’s blow all in dusted~with~limpid~perspective horns.
A soupcon, I charm you, as only a soupcon
To splash over your private frangipani rooted in just advance,
At whatever costs reveries.
The photo’s source: By The original uploader was Fuzheado at English Wikipedia [CC BY-SA 2.0 (http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/2.0)%5D, via Wikimedia Commons