Sleep has been a sluggish pixie and the moon a constant Patheon Of Twilight Sirens. I am lulled into molasses eyes and am never sane. Only a ghost in my sheleton. A malingering cocoon in the shape of a perpetual Snow White Crane. I garden the grove of Midnights inner thy and valiantly persist. I lay siege where I lay down my arms to suffer peace - as merely a mirage of luminous Tchotchkes and stolen kisses from Abyssal Lips.
Under wrong stars, I roam the Halls of UnTime. I go on my way where looming is sprinting into stagnations embrace with all the vigor of Hermes. Floating in the hall is like surfing a dark gods wave. An undulating fog of prodigious oblique. in haste. I am a Time Machine that writes poetry and may never finish my Tea. Earl Grey.