The Red Thread

Haven't your ever felt, that certain words orated, naturally (in all irony) ebbing through the the ganglia of phrases, deeply encroached meadows, yes these embryonic and skeletally naive pigmentations of the audible, having been stricken by this persuasive derailment, a contracture of the italics, that simply but emerge, emerge and metamorphose through the buddings of a most synesthetic Greek tragedy. The sensual tension, between the tenor of the chromatoforms, one that has infinitesimally sculpted(the frets and bare nakedness of Grand pianos, seize all naze of architecture)the eloquences of suffering and tragedy, and the other, the aggrieved, amelioration of martyrdom by, cartilages of deterrence (that which consumes deconstruction itself- a sanctifying infantility). It's irony was twice and twice.... And for beauty...(Now the monotone violin, as shameless as can be), flora tenses against the oracle(yes I know), they were cursed to never forget. Her interpretation, makes it complete- the reverie of flesh interspersed amongst the dressings of clay, stone caves... Babylons.