Shadowic heroic ornamental's, false breed's cometh as incense breather's betwixt lively instrumental's. Macrogram plaza's to abrahamic venue's. Caller's calleth upon themselves to saveth what is not theirs;

Morning breath, to winter's dew, hath thou been born yet? Is the baby yet due?

Constant pain's to loss taken gain's maketh brain's and vein's out of organically made flesh; becometh thine own creator, thou creed of selfishness. Anchor heavy soul dragged away by chain's of past forget-not's, wherein the ground stayeth hot to ruin moronic window's.

Maketh thy bed of silvered spring's thy own rusted medieval pillow; thou grand ol' operatic theme, thou patriarch to a dream,  Art ourn day's but a whisp of a second's last?

Thing's hath cometh to the listening one, the earth's spinning to fast; the mechanism's now begun.


©Brandon Nagley
©Lonesome poet's poetry
©Prison writing's