Tick, tick, tick…
Night visions of sudden remorse feel the longing cascade.
Plaintive division parses torture through niceties of guilt.
The nature/nurture debate derives from Darwin/Freud mindsets.
Play of words…
The period piece speaks volumes from hollow voices, when the catamount caphony misses the eagle’s scream.

It’s not like it feels a shadow brushing up against the leg, or sidelong glances groping in the dark. A party starts nightingale singing, laughter reaching ceiling, sky feeling.
Her mention of past mistakes, longs her memory, otherwise the tears are drying without aid of wind, nothing clouds the thoughts better than a nice compliment of change. I would question motives of deliverance. The deal cancels new hopes.

A platter full of hot to trot fries. Igloo cools the belligerent bully gods of Norse design, we wouldn’t doubt the sincerity of her resolve, she promises a possible existence of merit.
Then believing it wholesale, leaps the faith where no nets catch the fallen. From start to finish, nothing in between predicted what happens next, mostly the same, yet surprise surrounds the crows who are counting, one by one, or two by two, anything that resembles a quiet riot.