A flurry of chiffon woven of petal veins cascades over the edge.
As layering obscures vision, regality blossoms from the clavicle, encroaching upon a decorated halter. The function of the object is to have form. Question Methuselah once you round up, and hover the hem until the hummingbirds sing. The beat of a barbule wing stirs tempests, and heels torn from callus spark as they strike even satin. As bice light melts over sculpture doomed to live; an isolation is defined as the dance of the century. Gods walk above us on scaffolding we build.