Hollow Fruitbugs



Remember the random parrot flock wail; although shy by leaves, unseen, still their psalm guttural calls, "Good rest at native oak!" perched and harmonize the lack of church bells as non-idolator beige surrounds. Woe, we bury the trash, the rubble withal wisps drunk on wine. Ode starving haunts divine. We pick pomegranates, nearest nature, forgiving miraculous conception the promise of living through a famine. The possibilities of superb fruit, everyplace workmen in reverence at truth. Seeds do strive the ticking enigma; they have certain minds to speculate, mimic and manifest a glowing sign. The pomegranate creates hollow bugs. Hollow bugs become mine admiration well enough upon a branch and lovely ancient television, the fruits thereof, beckoning passerby's vexation.


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