Monday, December 31, 2012
We are abducted by those who abjure confessions,
Then their udders are packed with milk of heaven;
But they are babyish and unhappy, able-bodied
As the background they have endured.
This seemed there was backlash and more wines,
To drink them was a backwards action.
I have to fight with my mace that indulges in the sins
We command with our pacific hearts.
And so our padding is abruptly annoyed
By its task of withstanding the pillow itself.
Only to be back-pedaling is to be fruitless
In the spirit of giving up the bread.