Mossy dweller seeks secret alternative opening, that isn’t a frugal splinter covered entrance. others whom use said vessel, are a slashed red wine drenched thief.
As they leaked through the bulging door, the noble Shepard snored whilst diligent sheep gauged on dried pulses and beans in pods.
The watcher of cursed keepers or hazy heaths stands near said door which while a jar is hollow with legumes among woody shrubs.
The sheep hear the Shepards brawn voice vibrate, this beckon echos a heap of waxy sheep beyond him, black sparrows proceed and squabble in the thick fog.
The sheep pursue him because they perceive his mouldy mouth sounds as they spittle in scotch mist.
The humble soft eyed sheep won’t stalk a ravenous stranger, vulgar marks left whilst increased light and wet removal from said strangers.
The fragile yet vain voice may not be trusted as its hopeful emptiness isn’t corse enough.
Seeds and grain scattered, I am the entrance, the crumbling door, which in its entirety, is left open for you, the sheep.
If anyone dare enter through me, they may begin to carve and excel in longevity, this may deem or express upon such busy hour a mere venture towards unripe freedom.
Subtle sage may maintain the root that a thousand sloths pity, but when they unlocked the door and sprung from within me, it was only then that detailed yet delicate whispers could come forth and while self systems vibrate, automatic breaks, disrupt and confuse.
We were all submergered in a guilty sludge like substance.
The elaborate removal of items such as straw, yak, twigs oats, moss, beans and broth is a natural greed of the one which removes breath and object.
But I am the door, with hinges I attach my weight to grain and bacteria is honourable. A jug of ale drips, wild ducks lurk in abundance.
The fleeting forager has no clear complexion, and is troublesome and distracting.
Only I obtain such knowledge during stormy winds you too could basque in everlasting nourishment.