open now 
creaks the 
box of demise, 
inside dusty 
corners layeth 
all that I surmise 
yet cannot conduct 
into productive 
enterprise... 

sleek are the walls... 


the reigning of 
blood from blood 
trickles to an 
incremental stop 
like an onset of 
menopause, 
from the dry 
crackles of 
blackened flows 
arises the new 
dawn where the 
shadowed crow 
rearranges his 
torrent of blows. 

Dust particles 
linger adrift 
winds of thrift, 
a steady thought 
process to cleanse 
even the deepest 
of recess whilst 
deflecting the 
enstranged religious 
strangers trying to 
corrupt me with 
what they bless, 

go smoke some cress 
I say, but here is 
where i digress... 

as the diary of he 
who is fiery remains 
open for the one who 
pertains to write 
and expose this 
inner delight, 
the deliberator 
hums a sadistic 
symphony 

a composition 
to delay the 
corruption of 
disposition, 
whilst awaiting 
the half-orc to 
align to position 


fast are the falls... 

closeth now 
doth the 
box of demise, 
outside dusty 
edges layeth 
all that I propose 
yet cannot compose 
into productive 
inner repose...