The reverence Baslm Jenkins felt for the provision of miracles and marvelous tempers was a fulcrum of decision and result. The world would go through yesterday and tomorrow, but the reservation was here and now. By the pale glow of the moon, by the sun in morning-tide glow and twilights warmth, he reveled the tender legacy of a bewildering raspberry cornucopia; just a taste, just a taste of Eden and victual verse.
A smidge of raspberry creed, sweet in the tears of nirvana, flavored by heaven and wrought by the forge of Valhalla. Raspberry odd, odd to savor the enchantment and convention of contented serenity, it was a taste in spirited absolution and natural bloom.
He evaded the realms of pain and the dire anomaly of dieing. His consumption, his unrefined ails abated and emaciated flesh became full, whole eyes bright and in fires of phoenix resurrection. Raspberry odd, miracles in abounding dreamy worship, dancing ballerinas and circus ponies in fresh hay permeated the taste of divinity and the man, Baslm Jenkins became an angel in infirm corporeal bond, yet unbound by raspberry odd. Baslm dreamed of tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow in raspberry odd.
submitted at 11:15am
26 October 2010