fulminate

I was a vessel sometimes. Tending individuals within until they became too comprehensive. Bloody fodder not food enough for cravings. Even the pulsing primordial sea had languished into tepidness. It was in this way that such contractions as can't, haven't, shouldn't, and isn't bore new hearts to a strange beacon. Tremble, hope. believe that when rabid moth wings beat false rhythms the flame won't stumble. Darkling is too steep, and there surely isn't enough bread to stuff that mouth into silence. So let it cower, because the light converts profanity into euphemisms. Those are softer, mostly meaningless.
Leave the hearts free to crash into sylvan trees or climb them. Also easy for them to cartwheel through barren lands, fueled as they are with the passion of a million stars. And, for entertainment solely(soul-ly?), they point questions like fingers and ignite mountains and savannahs alike. They aren't choosy in that sense. Later when the y run giggling through the ashy terrain they find life there, and not the death, which is oftentimes expected. Who, is his or her right-as-can-be mind, would not want to be a spectator, a coach, a secret-catcher for such as came before.
And me? This nothing? I? Well, all that is my favorite sitcom of course. The funnest game to teach or play. The most tickling whispers ever. I'm just not sure if I help stoke the fire, or bellow it into exhaustion. Or if I'm supposed to be its lantern glass. I mean, do I volcano? Convey? Play poker behind enemy lines? Intone? Or subtly excoriate? In essence, nothing more than shavings rotting on some unlevel floor. Sometimes that does seem to be the correct answer. But this vessel was not kilned, I'm certain, to grow nothing more than rampant autophobia and festering words. There's more.