Servants of enlightenment, do not confuse thy will of thine eyes. For upon you lies a deceptive malice. Fortitude of thine ears deafens your malicous tone. Longevity in thy words escapes thy logical conciseness. Delude thy dreams on spheres of flaxen gold. For my words lack meaning. Silvery beams of moonlit swirls crescent the mind of the weary guest, for indulgence is rampant. Questionable plees. Run beside me O foreign ground and plot your way of life. Distilled in my mind is the wine of your concepts. Treacherous words form from the froth of conscious indecision, though beautiful are their play. And I wonder is there any meaning to be found? Surely the pen entangels the soul. Delve deep into sheets of pulpified wood. Giving glory to thy hearts of the counseled grace. Spinning spirits of indignation before the helplessness of the blue eyed demon. Rot in your love of foolish scutiny. Foreshadow the absence of thine own meaning.
Categories:
pulpified, on writing and words,
Form: Blank verse