Welcome to The Pixel Pun

It is my turn to be married to the mirror To shelf this kiss she holds back from me To hide the darkness in the memory’s angst; She’s been gone for more than weeks To do something we should not begrudge— Something we ought both be bedecked by. The sun shelters my solitude each second crossed— Crossed by the drudgery of her absence, The absence of my present passion aloft. Pity me for the years begotten beyond her; Pity me for the days earned beside her; Pity me because I needn’t bemoan this trial Executed in the absence of my passion present; Pity me because the sun may change me for her. I should be broken no more than the mirror But of course if she has a pair of ears, they are mine For the mirror to stay whole and never to be forlorn.

Choices in whims suffice Biases of hearts to fuel In wanton merriments culpable afar; We sing for pleasure nonetheless Pour l‘histoire de la vie de l’amour En les moments intérieurs les mains ; Et the sea slides beneath the earth While merriment roams in hearts To stabilize true worlds wanton in want.

My memories could not be more even. They rallied in my head for defiance. They rumbled for comfort by the side. They suffered irrelevant heartaches. They found succor in their own vibrancy. I was glad they could be so secure. I was glad they could dance to my pride. My pride was not in me but in themselves. She had been in them before me for me. She belonged within those imminent. Their goal was inimitable. Their vivacity was impregnable. Their resilience, beyond my conjecture Though certain they were to limit obduracy In brands in feckless miens.

Humor propriety in a stride, Claim its grace for resilience in strife, Comedy may yet resound. Humor directions of drive, More destinations may yet arrive To be conquered by the surreal. Humor harbingers of grains, Blindfold the visionaries of gain, Pave way for needless sprains. Humor prejudice for its allure, Humor the magnificence of the bizarre; Be lauded by the fluid.

A dove flies sparsely. It flies for the abiding. It’s a bird in love with time. Predatory beings tread cautiously. “Preys” are somewhat much freer ironically; Often unhindered in sinews of innocence. “Predators” promote fear. Meals diminish thereby. Meals mutualism may mold.

There are pillows aplenty — Pillows of beauty shrouded; Beauty devalued by mischief; Beauty sunken in self-repression In homes bereft of adoration. There are pillows aplenty In venues of love’s coronation Where crowns crave candidature Or emissaries of seeds of valor, Or forts of gametes sublime. There are pillows aplenty — Cushions of weights remorseless; Cushions of forbidden relevance; Cushions of drive derailed In homes of daunting ill-will. There are pillows aplenty Where my vision is material; Where my sight sees service Serene, social, trans-infinite, Incomparable to the heretofore appraised.

My shoes, The tarmac mocks them. One pair smiles and slaps it. Another succumbs to its allure. Its allure—the delight of motorists. Its allure—their own despair. They wear away in my enchantment; My enchantment with its allure. My shoes, They call to mind my wife before a mirror. Daily, she goes to it; It stares at her sans remonstrance. She looks at it more than that; She admires it more than she does me. I cringe to break it. Oh I could break her thereby! But she would run into my arms; This I yearn to cultivate. I should break it too soon. My shoes, Who can put them on but me? My shoes—the tarmac. My wife—the mirror. Me—my shoes. My shoes, We should be on too soon. We should be on too soon, My shoes.