Empathed Crossroads

My dumbwaiter thoughts circle beyond dumb tongue, nummed by the enigma of autistic brilliance. Now that I only see in infrared spectometry. If I am eclipsed by the pre morrows dusk, the impending vise, gripped in your sojourn. What do I be, what is left of my journey done. A flaccoid doll left out in your storm in your subduing gauntlet thrown, Queen of the Stormborn, Rider of Dragons, come. What then is the cast of shadows for, the White Walkers of the North? While you dance in my marrow as unattainable scorn. To have your cold-snap lull me to death and jar me back to life. A tempered oscillator of hapless bulwark, a still-born of your broken water left in the care of the Angels and whisked to God's Holy Throne. In my delusions of warped moonbeams projecting phantasms upon my minds fantastical means. Who takes care in the packaging, in the warning labels in the free falls into livewire nets or none at all. To be but a pilfered statue in Life's Adventure of you. Where do damaged wings go for the impossible mend. Where does the haughty breath go of endless debris blowing winds. I am but screaming in digital, the dark spectrum of light at rainbows end.