Plough the earth

Mingling with your features, departure for an uneven seizure, pass the cod to the feline in the volatile dormitory of another creature. Respect due to the elders, vacant stare from a mind to occupy and restored to its golden age. Before the temptress watered the mill out of a sense of stolen joy, did you ask for its litter? Better not pour more salt in the wound, short essay from a broken mould, assistance needed to escape the gridlocked womb. Regardless of its vintage, it swallowed the whole cityscape down to the last village, one last gulp from this delicious wreckage. Eternally in search of missing limbs, look under the bed, it’s always where the teaser leads, sixty six bags of seeds reduced to a fine powder snorted by the sassiest ovaries. One last night under the umbrella, the forecast is grievous, the clouds enchanted, signalling that the earth is ready for ploughing.