Children are Irrational.

Tip lick the end the shimmering ocean, gold and red.

Children are irrational.

Brown toys or long statues working in the stolen factory.
A sentiment involving petty emotions and the mindless eccentricities that brought it further within her dense throat.
Picked and pulled relentlessly, poured on the rug, soaked into the wood.
Sad as he repeated a worn argument.
Sad as he watched the sky turn.
We warned our tall friends.
Alas to no avail, the tarnished boots fitted you quite well, and dare I say… complimented your figure.
Neither beyond nor below the point, against your predicament, and worried the grass would die eventually.
Stiff as if the many irritations had finally captivated the stubborn audience of your skin and reacted appropriately.
The impression of synthetic cornucopias muddled with sociopathic desires to become distilled and burdened worked over your tired eyes.
Wet piles of black hair draped in heavy braids and fastened securely upon the illuminated cylinders subtle cries for stability.
I worked to maintain a negative solution that would most certainly replace these clear vials of cryptic memories.
I certainly created a rather dry doll, and it held fit to pitch it into the sink.
Racks of antlers on moving mattress's returning to our turquoise hovel in the now dead grass.
Looking beyond the black dirt and below the white sky.
A film of grey against your window in order to prevent wandering souls from escaping.
One.
Or nine.
Merely put in a room to see just who… would get the better of each other.
I always hated this Father, his bowl of splintered animal teeth he seemed to hold so dear, the representations of the elders that triggered magnificent images of warm bread and stale fish he performed so eloquently.
Yes all of that.
Furthermore the bags that were filled with hot urine pressed against the grooves of your otherwise brittle fingers, and burst upon impact allowing a string of dark meat to fall along my feet.
Combing the pale stench for a hint of sensibility or rather tranquility.
In a week or so she will have died.
In a week or so he will have died.
In a day or say after two weeks or so we will have died, a proper burial would be… unnecessary, though I assume the earth should have that covered in generations to come.
The Children are irrational.
At times unbearably so.
Intent on leaving the pot on the stove and the lights on the tree.
I've adjusted the fractured branches around your cheeks and along the subtle bends of your waist, assuming the rest was nothing but sadness.
I left you to the woods.
To sleep for hours.
And remain wounded.
Soaking in contortions.
Rusting in the egg.
Talking with beached whales.
Pardon the latter and presume the foremost.
Mainly unrelenting as would grey birds and white clouds
Lock
Forwards
For the sake of life, let us eat.

Author's Note

Here is a not for the REVIEWER.