the rotting fruit pulse

At the stove of fierce white notes,
the soup pot stirs its brine.
The tea turns party's mournful fate,
the postman breaks his spine.

Never fall while manner null,
and scale the mighty shore,
he ponders thus, his blood flows fine,
and soup goes out the door.

To catch the whirlwind acid plain,
he runs the trail of red.
Behind him stands the faded pearl,
of terror's black stained bed.

Our dark cake sits,
it's face sewn shut, has whispered secrets nigh.
It throws the gravy lady up,
her forehead hits the sky.

Stay back!
Don't bring the diamonds wide of velvet tears of old.
Your heavy wooden blindfold splits,
she watches through the cold.

No form can enter tidal scene -
she perches on the ridge
of cloud and falsely fabric flies,
regrets fall from the bridge.

Now stooping fast, his heavy hands,
the baby boom box bound,
far older than the simple frown,
the postman hears her sound.

Oh gravy lady,
have a care and pity well this soul,
who toiled the letters furrowed field,
while fathers tales were told.

of sadness silent hidden foul!
of currency experts urged!
of purposeful, but satisfied!
lives worn and wasted surge!

HA! Her mouth mud forms the word
of shameful, sickness slime,
and paints the surface of his face
she sinks his tendril mind.

"Your foolish wound has hoped for more,
your beauty staunches fair?
So perish wide beneath the ground
and join your brethren there."

The rotting fruit pulse, hanging low,
The ROI goes red,
The postman shifts the paradigm,
- to dead.