Shriveled up morsels,
Contorting with asininity
Reeking of ignorance
Masked by cracked velvet

Blooming bushels
Bursting with vibrancy
Dripping with honey
Emanating from sanguine satin

Wise men toil in agony for the latter
Wise men till fertile soil for the latter
Wise men **** and manicure for the latter
Wise men plow and sow for the latter

Wafting through the gardens of wise men,
Flows air heavy with flowery perfumes

Glistening in the gardens of wise men,
Glows emerald, ruby, and sapphire jewels

Echoing in the gardens of wise men,
Resonates a nightingale’s last tune

And when the knife blooms a corsage in the wise man’s heart,
He bleeds black ink
Which spews from his mouth
In a torrent of obsidian rain