Spoken

Didn’t notice did you

The pillow soaks it all up so well

Nary a drop by morning

What would you know

Of the infarctious incipient

The void miasma

Closing to inexorable seizure

Though no hands be found

Bruised though they would be

If espied by any but the incorporeal

The designs of synaptic deviance

Through the quicksand hours

Interminable reflection

From unceasing dread stimuli

The lords of my creation

Preclusion unthinkable

Rather cut the cords

Extinguish the possibility

In the foul stead of hope

Somehow, I have unburied them

A long dormance ponderous upon their twisted fibers

Tentative timbre

Quick to remonstrance

But, with nourished avail, they shall play as the wind blows

And I bestow my countenance upon you

That you may deliver me from the confines

Of a pernicious actuality

The strength to promulgate madness

And beauty in equal measure

Vehemence unrivaled

Save by the salted, saturated expulsion

So near to your swathe of oblivion.

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