Fantastical ******, I give you shape.
I shake my single state of man,
that function now, is smothered in surmise.

And,
All Blood, reeking wounds and I'm
bathing more in red.

Fantastical ******, you I see,
are withering on the ****** thorn,
I gave you lease, a proper pride,
a vault to brag of,
This wine of life is drawn,
and a pleasure do I seek.

Mournfully.

Morning, O-******, Withered ******,
Time elapses in units and,
Ye!
what fools these mortals be!

These imaginations has now given forth,
to such bleeding forces of-
an Ecstasy.

That I run behind curtains and cadence,
To witness a grinding gorilla,
gorging in glimmering blood.

I dream to see a translated thought-
as If, ****** is reincarnated as meaning,
As truly ambiguous- like trails of secrets.

Such Islets?