New-night black was the bicycle, smugly shadow ensconced. Its spokes whispered secrets into a discreet wind. Strain as they might, the words slipped ears grasp, dissipating as easily as an early fog. Tree boughs stooped lower, vainly attempting an eavesdropping. Moles' ears did unplug. Even beetles paused their scurry. Owls, heads askew, puzzled. For all knew the wind was a messenger, a keeper of the code, an encryptor for the fairy folk. And, upon that enchanted thing did ride such a mage, a girl of The Velvet Cloak. Yet should her metal steed be stolen, or otherwise half-inched, a cold dead thing it would be. Magic, you see, is a personal friend, a sense of love from beyond the mortal veil - and this girl was their most treasured one.
The clock of dustless shoestring hands ran infinity marathons with ease. The expanse before and the expanse behind, it covered in metronomic stride. “Twas not simply a simple time piece, humble though it was, yet a heartbeat for our home. Reliable. Steady. It was as earth meeting soles regardless of incline or weather, in the good times and the bad, in songs of heartfelt joy or tears, a companion it was through those prevailing years.
Petals origami-reverse at light's sweetest entreaty. Spring is here! Fresh butterfly wings expand. Spring is here! Aromas are our elevator music, humblest ambient serenade. Spring is here! Birdsong bursts forth as auditory fireworks. Spring is here! Let limbs ba-boom upon the earth and release the heart for dancing capers!
Dust clogged in tattered curtain’s shadow, the typewriter was a lament of days faded to meanest whisper. Once the bastion of the free world, the new sword of the journalist era, it neither lived nor died. Seizing in the stagnant mist, mist that rolled from harbours bare, ‘twas sorest sight, this corpse of a dream that should have lived. Oh my. Oh my. If only it had lived, perhaps the streets would have made it too. Perhaps the curtain would be red-velvet hue.
Within the antique flute the promise of centuries past, the promise of love's ever-flutter, suffocated in frozen brass. Its long silenced reed clung to eon's spittle as if old man time could reverse his tide. Tarnished, keys seized, it was reduced to little more than a pointless stick.
Upon the hill brow that sweet morrow, frosted as it was, I saw a grin of white. Or perchance, I suppose, 'twas a frown. Either way, those pearly glimmers were whale-ish in all respects. So tiny! So many! So broad-a-beam!