Wounds and whistles bend the counter argument, they blare the sound waving their palms in pleasing of trees that bind the traps of aberrations. You blend into a majestor of frothing matters that blend themselves together inside. Fishing out the lures, they squirm outside the seashore in lofting. We pursue these withering Mavericks, clashing with the titans of an olden period. These conflicts become detrimental, brushing with death of another mannerism. Ghosts of a tribal carlift, they hastened the square pegs foregrounds fell in deep with the enemy. The freedom is within grasp, as if a wind blew in time for you to grab hold of these statures. One found solace, the other searched for it in the infinite wisdom without luck to guide them.
Contributor- Chris Ballenger