Ensnared in
the crystallization
   of  web's
intimidating deception,
superficial spider
met its
duplicitous match,
whence the improvised
contortionist morphed
         forth from its chrysalis,
              spun midst grandeur
               in triumphant
                            survival of flight's
                                       sheer inception

Thoughts are incepted
Good or bad, we tend to them
Ignore them, they bite


*s.q.

A forger is what they called you—
A man of many faces.
The dream is where I met you.
The dream is where I should have left you.

They warned me not to fall,
For falling in love with someone like you, is nothing but a game.
They hadn't warn me,
that falling for you could be so simple.

A crooked smile,
And a flash of baby blues.
And oh, great God—
Your mouth;
A sinful entrance it is, rolling on my name.
Arthur...

A Point Man is what they call me—
A man of many ideas.
The dream is where you met me.
The dream is where you should have left me.

Did they warn you of the danger of letting me in?
For falling in love with someone like me,
is nothing but a chance to win.
Had they warned you,
I’d already fallen for you?

You formed my soul into something  keen;
But yet, altogether malleable.
A pointed forgery,
A loaded dice, tumbling into the play—
Readying to steal your chips away.

Winning and losing all the while;
Truly believing, in our downward spiral
through the machine.

It was a shame, for it’s all in a dream.
Our dream within a dream.