Pin Cushion

No matter the apple is ripe it is bitter in the end, tinkles of wine on the forehead and the mood is in swing, my friend, love is in the air, the nerves are ever so pumped, the innocent, heart, the truth never knew of the later grindings.

Fragilities hit upon the tree birch and the leaves fell, on to the grass trying to rot under the shadows of entrusted love, kept lying around the seeds of the fallen fruits around the well, shattered to the core like the fluttered wings of the dove.

Heavy price paid, to shed off the burdens sailing in the salted emotions, cushioned the pins thrust promised to handle covered by hard-earned situations, a snap of the finger and the promise to live and die ended too soon, unnoticed it went, deemed as a mistake, deliberate the actions you were the fool.

Could feel the sweetness on the tongue, unable to handle its effects, there were a few roses left in the garden, all had come with some of the other defects, no room for the rush at the bottom of the cliff too crowded with the bodies, I wish you had kept things pure and not landed in the state of sorries.