Phantasmagoria
Clear garish winds’ ascent grew plumbs renowned
Enunciating deftly to my heart:
If yon soot night inebriates the crowned,
No Lawyer can persuade a fire part.
Mere pigeons love blood in God’s tapestry,
Demure lungs and wrong idea atriums
Absolvent till Noon, their brewed majesty
Thwarts Edelweiss e’en to Chrysanthemums.
Dim cores all fight the luring sword of grace
Devout as Time sunk in an ink-tipped quill.
Touché, relaxing, elegant Lovelace:
Gore Kinderheim, by Night caress the ill.
The madness sways croon lig’ments by the shore,
For dances do all mired hearts censure.
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