Hours wasted on the smile, I stepped back and noticed Mona Lisa has no eyebrows.
Poetry’s Unconstrained Depths
It's rather difficult to define this art-form without listing examples of its many dimensions in metered expression. Sonnets, haikus, couplets among many other specifically rhythmic assemblies of words are conjured to the mind when the word is mentioned. However, poetry can include art of any form, even sans words, depending on the eye (or perhaps ear) of the beholder. One might find it in the motions of a ballet, or the quiet sounds of nature when watching the stars. The word can be applied as a synonym for art, and often is. Whether you enjoy the structure of an Italian sonnet, or the freedom of imagery-filled prose, poetry can be found anywhere by those who recognize its descriptive, emotive, grace in the undeniable internal reaction it elicits.
Knot to Laugh
The frolicsome hippopotamus
Danced with the giraffe for us
Through the capsule which held time
Twirling actions into rhyme
The abominable snowman huffed
Melting layers, dried, and fluffed
To the silly melody
'Til a wee yeti grinned at me
When they were through, we had to laugh
At the gangly, young giraffe
Knotting that long neck of hers
As she tumbled down the stairs
The happy hippo was prepared
For his friend to need repair
And frolicked quickly through the capsule
To collect his giraffe-knot-tool
Slapstick ensued - nothing witty
But enough for the small yeti
To giggle herself into a bubble
So far from abominable
That she joined in the silly fun
Henceforth proving frolicsome
The Mirror Paradox
The surface reveals the contents of the entire universe, infinite depths, yet remains completely superficial.
I watched his little body twitch with each discharge of the seven rifles, though his hand did not waver from its salute. The bugle, in perfect pitch, sang the memory of that demanding uniform to rest while the cloth was folded with precision. No four-year-old should have to accept that morbid triangle of honor in lieu of a parent, but there he was - so brave - your son. He held that flag so precious, as though it would someday bring you home. Looking at him today, sporting his dress-whites, at the same age you were then, I could almost think it did...
The Jiminy Project
Everything you say, do, see, hear, and think is being recorded. Secrets no longer stay between you and your cricket. You can't avoid it. The disturbing part is what you had been sure that you'd already gotten away with, before you found out that lying is futile...
The Science in the Spelling
You can halve your cake and eat it, too. Following this recipe, it'll last through any amount of sharing. Fruitcake somehow never gets smaller, regardless...
Author of Bland, Unremarkable Obituaries
Travel agent for Styx Oneway Cruise Lines
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Well-versed in execution of exit strategies
Extensive experience with Discretion
Plot numbers available upon request
Francis Learns the Alphabet
A brazen, craven dream enticed Francis: "Goodness! 'Has innocent Juliet known lust,' my nymph? Oh, princess..." quoted Romeo suggestively, teasingly, undertaking very wicked x-ratings. "Your zingers are brilliant, cutey."
Driving, encouraging fingers gyrated her, involving juicy kisses. Lingering, miniscule nibbles over persistently quivering ribs, slowly tantalized undulating, virginal wonders. Xiphoid yearning zenithed and brought carnal, delicious ecstasy. Francis gained her internal jubilant kinaesthesia, learning muscle-tension no other passion's questing, rubbing, sinful torment understood. Visions, wherein xenomanic, young zains awakened breathtaking curiosity, delivering enigmatic feelings, guided her. Insistently, joltingly kinetic lips meandered nearby orgasmic, pulsing, quickening, riveting, sensitive, tingling, unmentionable venues with xylocarpous, ywis zealous, albeit blissful consequences. Delight engulfed fully, grinding his intense, jumping, keen luck. Man never orchestrated pleasure quite right since then.
Just Another Memory
Recorded, but distorted in the lifetime of ever-changing perception
The silence that watches you from between everything you were ever told
That wondering, wandering doubt that nips incessantly at the subconscious slumber of your conscience with mirrored eyes
Speculating what is Truth
I am to you as you are to me:
The story of a life
Which may gain substance in yours