The fairies were dancing while the flowers sang the tune.
The inter-dimensional membrane was broken through at last.
The floor was on the ceiling while the ceiling yelled for mercy, but the door was always open and the fireplace did roar.
The pumpkins were all lined up and the butterflies were hungry, but the bees made nothing but trouble for the trees and all their friends.
The wind just kept blowing, and I thought I’d seen enough, but the stream was flowing past me and I didn’t want to miss the show.
While the clouds kept hiding the sunlight, the fish began to shout obscenities to the memory of the fire that killed them all.
I never drank from a silver cup so who will fill it with the wine that it deserves, to toast the toast that we deserve?
To frame our lives in the window panes and hang them on the walls. What button do I push to end this nightmare?
The walls are staying where they have always been. It’s the floor that I don’t trust. The table told me stories, and the chair and I believed every word.
When the ink dries on this contract, I suspect that it will turn to dust and blow away in that damned wind that never stops.
If I yell any louder I’m sure I’ll wake the bell, and we all know what happens next. I would have too.