Incidental particles of generated subterfuge,
that resolve in the substrates of a vehicularish trogglight,
amassed in polished angst, albeit a bit morphosized,
but rather Columbianesque, in a savory way.
These are the emolients. Poltergeists of sorts, a force, the dragoon
clawing theatrics of mad urchins, the train stop whistle’s vortex,
the dew on time shackled agreements.
Would I partake of such vulgar rhythms as to be a mime’s coat of arms
begging the sanctuary of the south’s abundant premonitory challengers to
exemplify an age-old proxy? Quixotic amalgamation of derision forestalls
imbittered translations of syntax collusion. – Sinz