To whom do I owe the pleasure? The scarlet sky that bounces a dreamy surface beam across eons of sombulant nectar cups of solar dust, exploding to form shadows that mesmerise, like rhymes in sand, transparent as fields in languid corners of never seen footpaths, meandering halos of fallen dragons?
Does the Moss Owl swoop to the trellace along the ruins of Socratic cities?
Is this the measure of servitude, in an otherwise sepid tank of surfacing fish that read the stars, and scallop the light, to emerse to the gory bottom of salinity, under the waves?
It is not perplexing, the arrogance of men that know of petals on paradoxical rhymes. The thoughts are ingratiating to the last. A silv of reluctance to encroaching persecutions, enlightening the sayers of cities under the sea. The pleasure is not mine nor theirs. The debt is to the bargain bestowed for an unknown price. – Sinz