Never a Lamb Bleating So Softly as the Waning Moon by Rich Ives

Only that one time the welcome hiss of choices greeted the old woman with heated voices, and the squall-like approach of lunar friendship escaped the sky of its open gentle anger. Perhaps before, the woman had been given just another form of money that wore its empty clothes to her costly service.

The given body’s plenty contained a ruby-red melt of sharp pepper heart. Stained with other accomplishments, she was rewinding the intentions of her light. Shallow needles of clapping entered on fleshy stilts, and the woman noticed the red house of pleasure departing where only the eyes ask.

Squat creatures with deep feet were traveling up the beauty of unintelligent blue. A russet anchor of birds reasserted that they were not the feathers of prayer but the questions asked by the vertical silence.

Not knowing what to do with the fresh dry oatmeal of relative men or the consequences of ignoring them, a very made up woman left her day full of sticks, where her skin was closer and caused by a question, wondered How can something absent destroy the reliable evidence?

Sometimes the engine is angry though it has no feelings. I want to come back as the space between, she thought, and there was something we were dragging behind us that refused to scream and brought us candy.

The flowers in the lamb’s mouth are not sweet, nor are they glowing, but they hold the words like pollen before giving in. When you lie down beside myself, I do so too.

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