Lunacy’s lucidity’s short, but inconsolable,
Affiance commences peacefully and long lives.
Thenceforth, I desiccate of thy return chalice.
Cause old manuscripts are saved, but charred,
Arbor emptied occluded by autumn early come,
Th’ stone giant’s rooted like a loner in candle spark,
Door’s wheezing for mother nay listened to her wench,
Th’ bench waiting for th’ nurse called long agone for lunch.
Arbor emptied occluded by autumn early come,
Th’ stone giant’s rooted like a loner in candle spark,
Door’s wheezing for mother nay listened to her wench,
Th’ bench waiting for th’ nurse called long agone for lunch.
…
’Tis thy affection’s on tip of a golden string,
With salt box of my minds chattering in beseech,
Thou art canvas for a willow I never leaned on,
Bestowed to meet thou, dear guest, so,
Thy experience’s fettered to betray,
Be prophecy-pursue to pulse the other gate,
If thou trudge thy vice to confess,
Thy couch - theurgy, panoply - art.
Tell, prophecy’s curse or merit?
Or prophesier’s metamorphosis int’ archer?
In names of whose mourns thou hear.
A crimson path led me to delusional arts,
The swing of justice hoaxed me,
As human tortured their faith in gyves
To welcome torched Justice to vacancy.
