A like Amphora
I, Adam, an admirable adolescent-ant with some acumen as well as with propitious admiration, without the apples, am adhering to an alluring address. I like to adorn each Parnassius Apollo, the dreamy sibyl-like butterfly. It is tender and meek, a cute amethyst, an amicable boar freed from ancient and propitiously gorgeous daydreams.
First of all, You miraculous Apollonian butterfly, are able to allay a gloam just after a blue hour. The night will be alight for Your sake alight. The bright flame is enchanted by ghosts of weird-fantasy. Your allegiance is sheen of muse-like starlets on the propitious heaven. I want to see an allegory of Your world of dreams born from a dew-fulfillment. You are allocating dreams into a weird dwarf-land at the back of a meadow, beloved by the Morning Star, fulfilled and freed in the magical and druidical holt-time. The holt likes fantasy – the dreaming oaks that are carrying the invisible thought of tender Erlkings – allied with the butterflies of night, the companions of the moon and birds from the starlets of the ontology. I am an all-purpose being philosophizing about the dreamery of the sempiternity and eternity of some rainbows. You have alluring, bewitched wings of melancholy. Thus, You are in the most tender epistemology, an all-knowing and all-powerful lady beetle that seems to allure the dew-spirits of the dreamiest springtide. I love Your allusions like the almighty Druid. I would pray to You aloud. Alpine roses are being carried by the blossom-like mermaids for You. At a druidic alar – the amassing ants. I am the amateur, amazed by Your mermaid-like nature, beloved by sibyls of the ethics. I collected amber for Your ancestors, the kinfolk of dreamed suns. The amber is like the ambrosia from morning dew, and the honey from ancient pixies. You are counting all the stars before the Morning Star in the alluring heavens, an aesthetically-fulfilled amethyst. I like your dreamy wings the most. they are like the Apollonian poetical vans, as If I were never the anchorite. You animate angels, although you are not from a heaven of angelic beings, but You are also true, alive. Your soft antennae are answerable to the Adonis´ butterfly, the biggest god of fauna. In my anthill, bacchanalian songs are always heard. You can and may rule with antlerling – the small antler of fairies which ought to call all awful wolves of the woodland. These wolves have become an aesthetic-aethitical apocalypse, waiting as the apotheosis of antlike apology.
written by
annalist ant Adam
