Fallacy

An eloquent visage placed upon a pedestal of mosaic stones, 

Creamy white snow shimmering, 

Glistening freshly cut phernomes sit eloquently upon your chest. 

"They will die!," you say. 

"They will die!," you say. 

Erogenous plains outline your temporal landscapes,

An infinite glaze of still-life sunflowers,

Procreating infants breadth, 

Hypnotizing Adriatic oils,

An immortal alcoholic pictorial enabling the blinded to see... 

"They will die!," you say. 

"They will die!," you say.