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I remember days gone by.
Good old days.
Where the insurgent rush of traffic didn’t choke my glands in thick fumes.
Where green fields rolled as far as the eye could see in all directions. Clouds climbed high, spiraling towards the sun. Each of them staircases to heaven.
I would lay, back-a-flattened against the soft thistle grass and whistle a joyous melody as I found faces in the clouds. I'd nimble through the knee-high ivy and foxtrot over brambles, picking bunches of whistlechuff and poppy posies for my sweet rosy-cheeked wife.
I'd skip merryfully down the hilly mount to our ivy-walled cottage and wait gleefully for her to wide-eyed return.
But days-a-gone are forever past. 'tis not dwelling on the past, but embracing it.
My starry-eyed wife has now perished, but forever I will smile at my single greatest commodity, the memories of time gone by.
Perhaps I'll meet a similar fate, go cuckoo-crazy and light myself ablaze on a bonfire of furniture. Then again, I may shrivel and wane my withered bones into a everlasting sleep.
Whatever-which-way I'm content for now, looking up at the clouds from the thistle grass with nothing but a posy of whistlechuff and my memories.
Good old days.
Where the insurgent rush of traffic didn’t choke my glands in thick fumes.
Where green fields rolled as far as the eye could see in all directions. Clouds climbed high, spiraling towards the sun. Each of them staircases to heaven.
I would lay, back-a-flattened against the soft thistle grass and whistle a joyous melody as I found faces in the clouds. I'd nimble through the knee-high ivy and foxtrot over brambles, picking bunches of whistlechuff and poppy posies for my sweet rosy-cheeked wife.
I'd skip merryfully down the hilly mount to our ivy-walled cottage and wait gleefully for her to wide-eyed return.
But days-a-gone are forever past. 'tis not dwelling on the past, but embracing it.
My starry-eyed wife has now perished, but forever I will smile at my single greatest commodity, the memories of time gone by.
Perhaps I'll meet a similar fate, go cuckoo-crazy and light myself ablaze on a bonfire of furniture. Then again, I may shrivel and wane my withered bones into a everlasting sleep.
Whatever-which-way I'm content for now, looking up at the clouds from the thistle grass with nothing but a posy of whistlechuff and my memories.
Haha.
I'm not even going to try and make up my own word in reply to that!
I'm not even going to try and make up my own word in reply to that!
I just wanted to make up words and do-this-too to make a rhythmn.
Whistlechuff :_D
Whistlechuff :_D
Is it wrong that I find the word 'whistlechuff' childishly amusing?
This was a very pleasant little piece though.
This was a very pleasant little piece though.
I remember days gone by.
Good old days.
Where the insurgent rush of traffic didn’t choke my glands in thick fumes.
Where green fields rolled as far as the eye could see in all directions. Clouds climbed high, spiraling towards the sun. Each of them staircases to heaven.
I would lay, back-a-flattened against the soft thistle grass and whistle a joyous melody as I found faces in the clouds. I'd nimble through the knee-high ivy and foxtrot over brambles, picking bunches of whistlechuff and poppy posies for my sweet rosy-cheeked wife.
I'd skip merryfully down the hilly mount to our ivy-walled cottage and wait gleefully for her to wide-eyed return.
But days-a-gone are forever past. 'tis not dwelling on the past, but embracing it.
My starry-eyed wife has now perished, but forever I will smile at my single greatest commodity, the memories of time gone by.
Perhaps I'll meet a similar fate, go cuckoo-crazy and light myself ablaze on a bonfire of furniture. Then again, I may shrivel and wane my withered bones into a everlasting sleep.
Whatever-which-way I'm content for now, looking up at the clouds from the thistle grass with nothing but a posy of whistlechuff and my memories.
Good old days.
Where the insurgent rush of traffic didn’t choke my glands in thick fumes.
Where green fields rolled as far as the eye could see in all directions. Clouds climbed high, spiraling towards the sun. Each of them staircases to heaven.
I would lay, back-a-flattened against the soft thistle grass and whistle a joyous melody as I found faces in the clouds. I'd nimble through the knee-high ivy and foxtrot over brambles, picking bunches of whistlechuff and poppy posies for my sweet rosy-cheeked wife.
I'd skip merryfully down the hilly mount to our ivy-walled cottage and wait gleefully for her to wide-eyed return.
But days-a-gone are forever past. 'tis not dwelling on the past, but embracing it.
My starry-eyed wife has now perished, but forever I will smile at my single greatest commodity, the memories of time gone by.
Perhaps I'll meet a similar fate, go cuckoo-crazy and light myself ablaze on a bonfire of furniture. Then again, I may shrivel and wane my withered bones into a everlasting sleep.
Whatever-which-way I'm content for now, looking up at the clouds from the thistle grass with nothing but a posy of whistlechuff and my memories.