The hands of time are waiting, from the Wharncliffe viaduct to Penzance, I twirl I breathe and walk on
Puffins are cute but so are wolves, Cthulu has won the battle but little Timmy will win the war. A soldier of fortune- St Micheal who has transcended this evolutionary phase
A hummingbird buzzes like a reverberating cymbal held by a spartan god, drop forged in iron ore the bolt cutters snap like a hyenas jaws, hooked up to the main frame and off the charts. My echo location has mapped out your position, the light house of Portas is a beacon of hope and fortitude
The monsters under the bed are real- they are twiddling they’re fingers, floating, morphing into the shadows, waiting to launch a pre-emptive strike
Painting the walls up and down side to side, in bright yellows, blues and oranges. Brighten the place up keep it fresh.