Scared, to let the words die, he hid, amid the languid luxuries of solitary structuring, lavished of the jaded and anguished lines, for lines melodrama, of the deviled days, of state, of mind, in fate, in kind, of the nether commas, devoid in honest ignorance of written words, dying on the caterpillars, cocooned, in all that's assumed, lost, in metamorphosis, never knowing this, is a dream, within a dream, of hope, clinging with stinging fingertips, ears ringing in the ripplits of a synesthesic pulse of visual signals, subliminally sounding the sirens, of solidarity, in the silent screams, of the sun rising, writhing in wanton seduction of my functions laying the heartened words of dead birds, falling from the sky, hardened in sloven cries, to justify, the means, tapping out on the screens, of a misnomer, a loner, in a coma, phoning you from the corner to warn ya, of the storm, in words prone to patience, in imaginit immaculance of the limitless limits, of livid lovers loving each-others lullabies, lolly-gagging in the illegibility, of our lucidity in the pity of leveled lofts, lovely-ly, levitating in elevating thought, fraught with passionate poetry, of ghostly words, blurred in the debilitating reasoning of reasonable reason, seasonally.
