If ever a peddler was,
He dreamed financial woes.

If ever a coffer be,
Betrothed to wealthy doses
On ships of Valnuranan bliss
Adrift it seems...

A coffin nail costs too much
When seeking sour morphing cattle
Warped by grain beyond their mettle.

He stops to think a clock becomes him
Like in time to soothe Their towering,
Effervescent as Solus Insonmiae creeps
Intertwining.

Stamina, in the blind emptiness
Of harboured ghost embers, flight
From a named unbirthday, forgotten yet always, always in love.

Four peace in strains from a broken chorus.
I bespy the tip of rapier harvesting,
In Winter forgotten, in step sidelined,
Interred lonely and screaming harsh requiem
At the mad, mad, mountain.

The verse construed, from paper scraps pinned
To cellar walls. To yearning carcasses
Fit for philosophy's sake,
Keelhauled for cargo heaving's sake.

This is the wage of living, furrowed brow
And tempered evenings, alighting only

When the fog lifts, the camomile is sincere
But awash with circled inks and numbered vials.

Vile emblem the crow volant,
Forsaking history by wishing it were sinister
Or to chief the chalk the tree the liar feeds
Counting off from the cast die strum
Strum the clutter, strum the wild, wild drum.

She beats her head against it all,
And cries, "Is this Transcendence, or simple
Enlightenment?"

And she never, never
Spoke again.

Penned by my hand on the 9th of Chronos, in the year 634 AF.