A lake in a forest, an amusing spectrum of absurd, pronacios osculation,
is prevalent dosage for this tangled vine’s eyes of sorrow.
Raspy throats chirruping languid in hollow vacancies of pushed down heaven’s truffles.
Masked marauders of centurions depth triangle squeeze the dark overture into nocturne
lanterns that flicker buried immortals’ tangents of tribulations.
The rocks of shallow creeks hide their wisdom from the dawn,
protecting the blood trudged amphitheater of destiny. Say to me, to a nuance of insight,
that I reel in the effused paradigm, and quote me in books of iniquim’s chalice,
but the finder is not the wisp of the hand of isonic diffusion.
No, the nightcrawler circumvents my grand ovation, the emptiness of my intrigue is absolution. – Sinz