these are the sleeping roses that dream of thorns and candy
a plume of ludicrous rubes ramping up the drivel
a shanty town that shan't not blot out the sun with it's moon
but rather a rambling brook of gorgeous boredom
swimming upstream to get down there....

please go...you might arrive before you leave.
even so, this is a private conversation that must be broadcast
as lavishly as night blossoms
this is the dead space, shuffling down the alley ~
seeking brackish wisdom and polished dust

these are the  genuine barnacles of faith; clinging to the hull of a derelict
an underground stream of punctual devastation
a zero, dividing without regard ~
these are the chilling suns, slathered in ice and muslin
a false door to a fiction
wretched with beauty and comely coronas

Thorns and Candy.