Trustnot

So there weaver,
fleeing fuzzy,
gravitating two-ward ruin,
similar to starchless spinach,
ourselves shambling through doors
sporting mysterious, complex knobs and stuff.
Groping through the salad, the olive ajar
with the eyes of Job kindled a sparkly prescience
with a tongue twisting word knot like
a level winding reel with a backlash of wild hair.
So there weaver with a delicate rivulet of sweat
waiting for Peugeot.