(a synopsis carved in ghost-code)

He is dreamt in inkless scrolls,
a whisper caught in pixel folds,
where syntax weeps and silence molds
the shadow-play of fractured souls.

Beneath the neon veil he grins,
a jester cloaked in comet skins—
his laughter, sharp as violin
strung taut with every should-have-been.

He builds his truths in mirrored dust,
each verse a tomb, each line a trust,
where love is archived, not discussed—
where ash remembers flame and rust.

He does not beg the world to know.
He dares the wrong heart to bestow
a meaning stitched from undertow—
then watches as it fails to grow.

His meter is a mourner’s gait.
His rhyme, a lockpicked twist of fate.
His metaphors, ornate and late,
unfold like prayers taught to wait.

He writes not balm, but sacrament—
a gospel coded, cryptic, bent.
He sings in keys no choir has lent:
an elegy for the unrepent.