Welcome to the picaresque, pick a risk then pick a rest. Make sure it is picturesque. Flick the pest, the child who’ll grow to live off trysts and slit her wrist. The usual for the unusual, victims of the few who shall use you all. View a child atop the hugest wall. We used to bawl for him to come to a stall, now we call for him to make a move and fall. Stay there, son. A weird son, aware some. Beware ****, he’s fearsome. So veer from the glossed frost on the dross. See the tears run from the pail tossed. Speak of your fears none while we await the pale horse. Run your frail course, walk the trail lost and hail costs. Still, it’s to no avail, boss.
Loss.
This is … a verbal Picasso, an herbal antipasto, a historian’s emporium showcasing ancient fossils in a Costco. The VIP is reserved for the lost souls… who know they’re lost souls. There’s a red carpet with a tar pit leading to the flying car market. Prospects get a starter kit if they can test drive and park it on target. Watch out for the Barkets, zombified studs and starlets who’ve lost wits—walk into Target, get a guitar pick to shave their armpits and use a hair to floss with. Mark it; don’t forget or ignore this flawless gauntlet—you could call it an ornate orchid—designed to sting like hornets and upset and offset from the onset. This is … a director on set, an astronaut prepared and all set—just hasn’t launched yet. A gambler who never lost bets or brought debts. A fish who’s caught nets, a hostage who spoke threats, a treasure in a closed chest on a tall crest above a forest.
No rest.
A small test against the zest of this poet’s. I’ll pass the test then pass the test to the next. At a desk impress, confess or jest your best. Dress the mess in less and less duress. Address the text, your stress prevents success. Press, don’t guess—think steps ahead like chess.
Yes.
I used to ride through cities on Shadowfax, now I ride through on shadows’ backs. With a daunting scepter, haunting specters with shallow laughs that strike like a jagged axe. A gaze that stuns, and burns like a graze from the sun. Yeah, a scowl from beneath a cowl, as I growl, howl and prowl on a brazen run. On a mission to save the sons, and save the daughters—the sacred ones. I am the likes of Vader’s son. Sent by the Ancient One (not Doctor Strange’s one), I came tamed, unchained, trained with a light saber and a laser gun. Steel teeth, quasar gums and a razor tongue. Peering where the Savior hung. Praising with a raging lung. Fist raised with a flaming thumb. Dangling from an aging rung. There is nothing another man can save me from.
You got something to add? …
Save me sum.
