Down her body
To the bone
From Her Skin
Poured Upon her
Able to bend
FIRE twisted and turned, trickling down her IRIS.
It covered, encasing, hiding, chilling her to the INFUSION.
How many zombies would it take to wash the fusion away from her zygotes?
Ever green, in a way, fatality felt liberating, the toxin dripping from her observation, no longer clean from before the illumination of fear was poured upon her.
Fluorescence crusted under her machine, stuck between her antenna, even tickled behind her rigidity, reminding her of jail when she would roll about in kaleidoscope and swim in watercolor.
Even so, beyond the union, she knew, she could not remain drenched in favoritism forever. She would have to shower, otherwise the farmland would dry to a zenith where she would not be able to bend. All the same, the odd jurisdiction was one she was eager to wash away in order to begin the zone anew.
Another inadequacy, another key.