Elven brethren stop by blacksmitheries;
Atop hay colored prairie hills dotted with
Windmill powered cottages
Adorned with thatched roofs
And downy feathered sidings,
As they carried mangled tassets jammed
Into their amazing cheaply-made magic satchels,
After the news spread. The hullabaloo directed at them in
Not fulfilling the annual request they
Were specifically entrusted with, in confidence,
In their conflict avoidance at facing
Webbed footed monster aliens, that
Inflicted shortsightedness in the consequences
Of their actions and the outcomes that went along with them.
As they entered they begged for mercy
In the instances of their bothered confirmation biases,
And for losing themselves daily
At the eve of their merry boffery.
“Unacceptably”, they’d say, in doing so
Instead of using their powers
Of prescience to see into the winters
As they were left feeling resoundingly
They crafted ornamental shrines, unsure
Where to place exaggerated mandala designs,
Within microcosmic palaces, primarily timed
When the stars of the cosmos moved then aligned,
Wrapping up begotten warnings in warped signs
Between the dualistic symbiosis inside the astral world.
Where loves, tried and tired, for the immortal
Gods and goddesses, were encrusted with
Gems in Tuscan color schemes, meticulously
Complimenting multiple shades of shit,
But let’s call it earth tones for the sake of poetry.
Falsified deities sobbing at
Kinds of love, unduly given,
So much so, they wanted to believe
Such phantasmal suffusions, ever hopeful
They could one day sigh with relief.
Dimensional lightning bug larvae,
Laid in wait, emitting bioluminescent
Triadic cyanic neon greens,
Surging, lasting in dimension lilies
With tumescent wavelengths of
The deepest burgundy shades.
Seducing oodles of greenish
Prey, attracted, sheepishly falling
For their enamored pillowy callings,
Freakishly knowing the yearnings
Far better than those they ate.
Before some force of nature,
Reflective of human type existence,
Grabbed and tossed
Then stomped and slid
Their feet grating
Their pretty guts across
The pavement’s surface.
Sentient remnants glow,
How they had wished
In swarms they rush:
Imaginal cyclic offenses.
How did they get in?
But they create loamy ideas,
To complimentary wineries.
Placing a burgundy glass
Plotting a massacre:
Wine-logged fruit flies
Stick to clinking walls.