Sweet as a honey bee's stinger.
A composite of conventional and eccentric.
My allure can hardly be contained or linger.
Observing the fast and the reckless.
Affected by none-too many faithless.
Persistent in anguish.
Love wouldn't tarnish.
Sweet as a diabetic's last wish.
If being born in this relentless world wasn't cruel enough, this beady eyed creature had internal conflicts to be resolved. There were no demons, just the echo of their demonic screech.
They say that there is no such thing as an original idea. And in fact every thought, idea, concept or notion has been adapted, improved or redesigned from someone else's. There is no originality in consciousness. There is no originality in despair. All sadness has already been frowned upon. But not everything has been ridiculed yet....
Existence is merely the excrete of an astronomically gigantic Bos taurus ( as we are all aware of).
The protagonist strides on-wards with a burden to bare. A burden to share. But everybody has their own bundle of cry to carry. Like an ant lost among the dung beetle farm, the madcap of dance and freedom was out of place, and without taste. Of passion to stir up the motivation of self potential.
The needful was in a dead man. A secret in his torn pocket. Along came the dead man fighting for his life. The fox heard his cry and leaped for his heart. The fox had saved him by cardiopulmonary resuscitation. And that's a plot twist that nobody is ever ready for.
In the torn pocket was a shard of mirror. Gazing upon it's own reflection, the fox found itself. The reflection of it's strength, the image of it's survival temperament. Out came the claws, the dead man was shreds...
But the story is short.
Like an Alzheimer's thought.
All pain is illusion.
All joy is delusion.
And your strive is the only real truth.
