Marshmallow footsteps upon airborne castles,
I tiptoe on daydreams
but in the night
I become sandstorm.

[Raise your head, drink the skyline. There, in the factory, the concentric brushes towards the midday vault transform into clouds. For all you know, that factory could be The Factory of Clouds.]

The might I’ll gain is the night I may
finally moistly-silken kiss my story to bed.
And sing to myself the song of Shroud.
The song of Hasten
and the song of May.

[Dreamers are the keyholes where everyone can peep to human endless imaginery. The keys are buried in the ocean ploughed. Forging steam-punk’d valves of the gates of Heaven, if they exist.]

Paper cranes.
They hold within all that fluctuates and all that’s still.
Windy wings. 
Irises- ponds of mist.

Days of November. Gray afternoons that somehow someone missed.

The night I finally put my story to bed,
I’ll sing the hellish cloudy song (tasted like cotton candy, though) titled  “The End.” 


[Masterpieces are dead when they come forth. The cradles of Never-Never Land are full of whispers, both plumed and insane.]