Brambling's Bow

The brambling is unapologetic. It never approaches slowly, murmuring a thin warning of thick, thick hedges making their slow, slow reach for its thick, thick lotus stem. Flowering lotus, enchanting and muddy, although you are resilient, and resilience being thick, although you are a thick, thick stem, you are not approached unapologetically. No, for whatever reason you are approached it is not as a warning, Lotus, it is not murmuring quiet comforts, rippling and blue. Is that what you are, you, are you Blue? Are you Blue, or are you Indian, Sacred, Egyptian? Water Lily, are you a Money Boulais, a stamp of something illustrious? You are whatever the Brambling makes you, or you are what the Bramble makes. It does not matter. All that matters is that you do not forget what stems from it. It comes. It blooms. You bloom. Or rot. Fecund, or khat. But it does not come unapologetically. The act of the Brambling is a sleepless, sleepless, almost painless, something of an almost egress, paralysis to fully depress. Lotus White, Lotus Blue, Lotus of a fucking Rue, you are still Brambling, and the Bramble may cease but it does not relent. It may cease but it does not relent. Carvings from a sojourn are forevermore, no matter how concise and clipped the thick, thick stem was. See slow, slow spines stay spinning skeins, sojourn severally schematic spellbinds, steadily spiraling sooty, sooty shameless stem, stalk, spindle, She. She is who the Stem is. Lotus you are needed. Lotus, you bleed it. Would it help to understand? The burning stamps the smell out. The Brambling is timeless, it takes all her time, it takes but it gives. It gives as a flowering, blooming mother. But it does not love. It comes unapologetically, don’t you see? No, it blocks the Lotus’ from Seeing. What could you want with seeing? Feel, Blue. Ride the blue stars you’re being showered with and never pretend you know why they chose you. The Brambling, well the Brambling, enough of that, Lotus you know what the Brambling does, and you know how it is I suppose. What else could be said? Unapologetically, Blue. Be unapologetically Blue. Succumb to the lethargy or be taken by it? It is your decision, Lotus. Well, the Bramble does not murmur to you, but you can make a choice. Brambling to a place, Brambling through a day, it may not relent, but Lotus, I’ll tell you a secret, whether you be Blue or Egyptian White. If you lean, and lean being fall, if you fall headfirst, fast, fast into the chasm below, beyond, above, however you See it, then Lotus, I’ll tell you a secret: You want to be on Her side. Sacred lacklustre, you must fluster, you must bluster, you must fucking fuck Her. In the sanest of ways. Sanest of sane. Not un-figuratively, more is-it-a-bean-tree-and-why-are-you-feigning? What did the Boulais say, because it’s there forever, so it really should have registered, but now you’re asking me. Speaking of Me, the trick of the treat is to not be tricked into a treat, but treat it as a trick, trickly treatly. Alright, that’s not a word but whaddya want from me? A sweet? Brambling of one’s own accord keeps one bobbing in the mellow shores, blue, green, algae pink. Colours of sweet wrappers tinted and blind. I’ve told you, White, I’ve told you now. Nothing is changed from the stems unless you take it up with them. Unless you whisper softly as you never did before. Sweeter than the blue boiled, broken bonbon: You weren’t as Blue as them, sugar. You whisper in Egyptian, murmuring tongues. Lotus flower you do your duty. The Brambling is the only thing there was or is to be had. The Brambling takes you to a place, it takes away a day. The skeins melt away at a certain point, but it never feels the way you feel when a flower blooms in May. Fecund or khat, you know where you’re at, Blue. Take it from Me.