Inside Bilbo's house, where the children dreamed and his eyes sleeping was, had flame out the blues woke that night for an untold story who was left behind. The hood of hobbits remained a safe base for me to guard expressions afterward.
Abducted by the perplexity, invoking the core of this branching fears, had submerge this escaping routes of deep thought away the noises in my head, carried away, enabling myself the darkness descended over each pores of the Norse lands to my now lost vision.
Now waiting, fitting in the frame of this bath, could not think well, and that was precisely as if it did not matter to him, I knew how to hide my Norse Goddess desires among Hobbits which was by no mean an undertaking, just a hideout, but his broad, it was his very spawns and the variety of his intricately mouths and tails, where I could not twist the knowledge he diverted in me, he was easily dissatisfied and my desires grew, pressing the borders of imagination was trapped by his hypnotizing expression, his serpentine magic moved through the base of all creations, pushing, tantalizing, so distracting, so taken.
Would you look into the wounds and heal from such a monstrous bite, It's a reflection, a flashback, I had twirl inside the waters with an itchy pain, outfitted in this tub, it was an obligation to respond with the vital birth right of the Gods, in that which belonged to the Divine dictations. If the village wakes with worry, had find my feet running naked between rocks and mud and the beast creatures shaped me onto his no way out.
Realms of abstraction, ongoingly passed, mumbled between them portals. "Cover my strength, convey the real virtues, oh but he is so twisted in the top of his head, how could I dig him?" It was not the mountain and the forest who understandably carried me from place to place, it was a very kind reward to have successfully accept or avoid his dangerous welcome.
A leakage of poisonous desire and I'll be off in my thoughts, paranoid or not the memory will take me back or forward into his voice. That either interrupts me daily, as for his blue burning flames who operates in causes and subsequences no hobbit, no dwarf or elven could bring knowledge.
My Husband Bilbo, once had me for sick, and I had cause inadvertently a state of a coma, so I would not speak of what he would call delusional.
The form of temporary distractions, from my Vedic deity who contained me with the illusion of a perfect hobbit family, a home, the peaceful scenography of that safety meant. Farm animals, and a garden house.
It was not the guilt of being a Goddess, it was not the mountains eluding, what my nature will do involuntarily, I knew too well how to rejuvenate the Nordic Gods, and I knew was not a job alone, the God kept triggering my psyche, the son of Striker, days after months, years vibrating, was it me? was it she? and him? was it his voice who ringed the Gods apples that traveled through the air? by the clever mediums of his sound, till this particular Nordic moment.
The injuries of the past impressed plainly with healing forevermore refreshing with youth The Gods as in Me, they marked a new dimensional aspect, I could now hide from trick or treat of the mortal and creature eye, had achieve to let others into the foreseeing without telling, granting mutual understanding, by the perception of his breathing lungs would not take for granted the idea that this was a plain of immortality.
Unpredictable, once cited the full enchantment my spirit pulled free, what sort of narrative could be more desirable? Someone part of the occult, the trickster of my apples.
At that point no one listened to the children of heaven's garden, who would report the rape of my forbidden fruit against the Higher God? The little angel cried, mortified, paralyzed and with no one to listen the truth when he was near, his body had the first punishment in the book, it repeated in every generation.
I was mute standing with the verisimilitude of a tree, I felt that would not mind enough, if his hair was exquisite long to be pulled and have it wholly stop, or if my a some of my apples belonged to his impending deceit, truth was something he called for you to think.
In milliseconds, my thinking hands to pull his hair had a sense of thick wet. Piercing down the view into my fingers a bloody mess had find, my husband's hours drop down, the last vivid red dropping in his floor to his sudden death as the bloody lake grew around his head.
Realms Crossed leaving his body behind his soul.
Did bring him my sweetest apples in an immune pie, he never understood the dark side of Knowledge, did he? Have I blindly murder you or was it the virtue I belonged to. Forget me or forgive me. To the earliest eyewitness of the Vikings, he stood in the middle of the hobbit house door, between the hall and his studio where he was still trying to locate his soul.
Many other languages the body has, as apples in my tree, this for I will never be in your Tolkien book but you will wake up looking for me between the silent gaps and this will reveal the changes you feel at the edges of the other side.
