Sawtooth Spire how do you title a swarm of thoughts

wotd: harangue (6/17)

Instead of being served a harangue of worry-some chides, the child was plucked like a swan feather from the mess. Emotion; however sick and tiring the boy guzzled on it's sensations. Poison that would envenom your envisage. Horrid yet beautiful. You could not wager, that sense. Fragile as an egg-sliver and raging like a tropical gale. Perhaps the fox plum was more at fault. He'd never trust a fox nor it's fruit again, red devils in wiry clothing. His body flexxed like stem under in the clasp of the gargoyle. No more, the weak cowbird could do. The star-imp would be justified to a frenzy, yet his mouth stilled, for once. 

He'd wished the entrances of the garden had eluded him, Phaedra could have her keep. Evils brewed in it's hanging mists so it was suitable for demon children to romp about in it. Pitiful snivel down the bridge of his nose drips disguised as dew as he leaves the morning's kiss.