Acerbic
stenographers astringe notations sharply—
alleviating
bite, by renovating the acrid testimonials carved
to
mind—honing gently the slashing song—where whispers carve forth
trenchant
pleas—pallbearers to the instigating insinuations, guardians of the purulence,
rife, when upon mordant lips, the secreting fixations of, yet, another
reverence to those that blindly guide their steps of rote, allowing the
innuendos, their latent stand, to the government that we know, have known, a
priori, perchance, breaking spine over cragged vales, built from self-sustained
flowing depositions, aqueous but not in water, instead, in the substance known
as blood,
Anted
up to and for, the ever-growing populous, prepared in sacrifice, delivered for
the ever eluding but finally found, pluperfect fertile plots needed, by and for
the contrition and rebirth of this, the endearing soliloquy, as alone, a
foundation for what is formed and of what will always be, alive within the
compositions housed up inside all the entities deeply affected by this dream,
this dream defined as love.
Like
the sepal, a parent must fall and leave
once
their bud breaks free
She
came at him, as if she were the xiphoid, thrashing
wildly,
ready to pierce, through wood, flesh or steel
Where
Zurvan’s voice is lauded high
and
translations proper scintillate the prophecy,
then
time and fate are thus realized, not as
the
enemy of mortality, but as constructs, devoid
of
the emotional absentia of non-particulate cohesions of deign
Of
which path proves to find, Quegh in hand, brim to lip, flushing, funding
remedies to one’s thirsting space
aftertaste,
falsetto’s straining cry, wryly crinkle the abased breath, curtailing to
prometaphase—in which, as to where, affectivity submits fruition unto, those
echoic wrests and culls anesthetized aware within—self producing vials of
relaxation, grifts the flesh of its willful mastery, tranquilizing away all of
tensions anti-gifts, paving forward the pathways to a pastel future’s beautifying
provenance
Like
the epigraph—attached to the blankest page, the one that oft arrives first,
before introductions or indices, illuminate what journey borrowed words will
play again—meaning staggers upon a skeptics skin—ever eager to prove the
story’s premise is as was foretold, if only to eradicate doubt from the perusal
within the crevices painting the walls of the minds many precious folds of fate
and time.
