series1bk3.2.4

 

Rooted in astonishment I stand, twitching  the itch of incredulity, a fool for doubting the folly of belief, grieving, and yet admiring the dire audacity of whoring in one so dear. Near the ilk of my own former antics, romantic at heart, I blend in her glowing soul, identifying deep, through back streets of fleeting sub-conscious memories of guilt. My stilted morals wince and wilt at the farcical charges you level at her ruffled reputation, ungracious in pouring spunk on raw sores, and chortling gleeful at my own discomfiture.      The priceless treasure of my childhood's heart      should not lie open to such vulgar farts.