Lined like a lyrical flip flop, or something, she blinks, twice. Empty between toes, and this old woman is singing about end times, but she is sparkling while. Her lyrics, about boxes, swinging, I'm not allowed to mention. The question about her hands will have to wait. The train is her pet, on time. Water slooshes on by like ice regurgitating its lunches. Do you not get tired here? Snow flags wave like lyrical flip flops, or something, she waves, like a flag. Songs about end times make me migraine. Buzz killer. Songs about forever times do the same thing.
[S'pose, we could keep having one word be the prompt, regardless of authors choice of poetry / prose.]
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A game of words and beauty played out across the intarweb.
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