to the untrained eye, our vessels may seem weak, or hindered, unruly to the mores of polite society, but to any recognizing this, as a gauntlet, I challenge thee, to a duel, I throw the glove, do you pick it up?
or leave it stay, dusty on the ground, grimy with the sweat of many duels, but unclaimed, as of yet,
the pearlescent years revolve, and resolve to incandescences previously thought unavailable, but bursting forth, they writhe forth from within the depths of your very soul, eerily awakening some former madness of years gone by, from the trenches of the early times though, the years, like your hearts, took the grenades of your inexperienced self, and they swallowed them whole, while we all sat and laughed together, high, and drunk on each other.
©danjor
D