Written by: Zhian Mostofi

Merrilyn escorts John through the Western trudges, as strangest of strangles blocks the memerrical double
Her momentous reflection: sordid, drossy, and wide to portant throttles
As whips become kisses and fainting memories open with admittance
The sorest sense of what will
She sinks down with arms befuddled, hands secreting rantfit metal
The sheer glory of having a semblance to riddle
Awoke Marin from her marching parade huddled softly around the charred spittle
As a choke veered into the holdings of her room
No one came, no one threw
But out of light came light, words yet more words,
Gone again and afrittle,
The shyest voice in a passable kidult
‘Laudable is that which mantles over a variety of rituals delineated for the appreciation of the belittled’
This is what we call to your view
And how we crusade, A rolling few,
Round after round, at the eve of curfew,
Steepening the anguish, as identity falls to loom,
The track marks printed along the ever-present faro plateau
Following dusk till dawn
Wheat fields and a draft court after the meager youth
‘Tis a xenolithic anthem we hunger after in dissolution
Our copious ardours, our lasting milieus'
As last meets new,
Past meets few,
Drastic action opens a polylogue,
With visage repute,
Merrilyn dances tiptoe out her seven-storey window,
All around her, print vestiture falling to the ground