a storm of ribbons, of course. In the morning after the blue, after the first white sky. Ravens love precision; they speak about it often & vociferously. Like a pot of water boiling. Like a poem screaming to be released. There you have it.
Sad without reason, she returns her teacup to its plaster stand and resumes the wicked pastimes. People may walk by her window late at night and watch a shadow form its oval shapes on the great blue wall, her skirt held high against her cheek. By the cliffs below, the silly ships gasp in the wind. In the grateful morning, two guests from Tunisia thought to have died are likely company once again.
Sad without reason, she returns her teacup to its plaster stand and resumes the wicked pastimes. People may walk by her window late at night and watch a shadow form its oval shapes on the great blue wall, her skirt held high against her cheek. By the cliffs below, the silly ships gasp in the wind. In the grateful morning, two guests from Tunisia thought to have died are likely company once again.
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