One Word Progression

Long ago, one of my oldest and dearest friends and I would use one word progression, taking turns one word at a time, to create something together that we’d probably never come near alone. So today, we tripped down memory lane and came up with this:

Open no possible doorways lock fast as light grounded.
Feral words fly from joyful cages while fed.
Divine questions worship themselves.
Pasty flat lines shudder clear rising dreams.
Felted shadows creep beneath velvet sacrifice.
Triumphant evening whispers and flutters around distant regrets as determined dawn decides to yet again break.
Sheer trust folds along fault lines.
The golden mean sun casts unabashed courses of discipline.
You, me and God.
Matter, energy revolve simply.
Foundations above the highest failure forget silhouettes created by darkness.
Eloquent gestures bemoan silent but untouchable strategies.
Insulate your dreams against your wishes to cast away.
Daydreams at night show convoluted blankets.
Encapsulate astronauts within your orbit.
Lame circumstances demand gaudy distractions.
Beautiful missives allow small curves like comets and shooting smiles.
Growth is vital to the death of death.
Philosophies of love rings turn deeper and stain the surfaces of our destiny, but words prefer to be spoken aloud.
Birth again portrays birth.
Sketches in truth decline with the passing fancies as they long to fly again.
Blisters form when love denies nothing.
Fame was awesome.
When you puzzle over pieces of life, the best way to put it together is through sorting green days from black.
The next phase in passion is lust with your illegal neighbor.
Alas and unfortunately, there are no sure ways to heal tomorrow.
Shivers’ warm touch is glorified through skeptics of travelling home.
Why doesn’t the girl sing from hymns written with the blood of Christ, Jesus.
Soft projectiles zoom sloppily towards their fortress of thatched platitudes.
Theatrical baskets shroud holy lands named for the prophets of guile and irony.
Right actions describe their motives as unwitting colleagues in crime and legend, but are wrong about most recollections.
My pansy told stories from the sleepy olden couch full of memories and trollops.
Unformed ideas can become yet truly believed and depended upon.
In the end, we sum it up.