Don’t you even begin to worry about a single living, breathing, stirring thing, oh cutthroat sweetheart of forever pleasurable mine – these wishy-washy tears of predisposed to perfection yours are undeniably momentary

Meander my way, please…
The ripcurl way of the world right about now

Shall we sit and bathe and mightily over-invest in righteously windswept gratitude, finally see that our outlandishly pressed fears are in fact our best part, when the balance plays itself out like pretty little clockwork

Digest the whole lot of this rottenly polluted landslide which tends to threaten our panoramically suggestive eyes – the vision is up for necessary debate

And I can’t feel my face when I’m with you, yet my mind brings itself back to magical, altogether maniacal life… aligned crest-ebbed time again – we are the most magnificently gargantuanised galloping horses out anywhere

These bohemian games we do play – of only ever ours – are heavenly-drenched by this fabricated aside severely personalised, inescapably fashionable thing

Blessed ‘n’ mixed, to memorably match by the forthcoming conclusion – these imaginary illusions are just about turning out to be otherworldly beautiful

And then, I get to feel your face for the very first time,
Treasured in Roman numerals
You are my Minerva – Goddess of all that is crafted from perfection, and rest with me, for there will be no trade-off as such

So you do know though, I falter to carry upon my hazardous arms the Medusa-like touch