trash

Amidst the goldstream turning the wake of whom has the butt still burning, there can be seen another story, whittled down, but undoubtedly Quory. In the blackest night the vacuum brings, the noiseless sound as engines sing. The harmony, the triple melody, the perfect cadence and then the pause with plagal radiance. Unfurling like ghostly feathers, the wings of energised particles through all storms weather the unleashing of the angry bees, together with the revealing of the queen. Like a virus behind the screen, between panels, you can see the sheen. Their numbers rise dramatically and then smart children touch the mildren and all the bees break loose. "Stop!" the gentle queen now shouts, afraid her bees will mete their bout, for in disguise she made some friends, kindly helping for her ends. So gently sings she bees to sleep, while wings glide silent through the Trident. In hibernation the bees add more to engine's harmonies, layers four.

Definitely need revising this.