Strewing the wishes
like a Sennett from the far away
sounding just like the drums of a snare
just lisps of lifeless wishes uttered
like swarms of roars
like vitriolic virulent feelings
echoed by hallucinative prisms
stenchy moist in the eyes
is what is left of the lure
to the den of grand deceptions
so translucent and prase
the trip of tears through a sprue
into the land of fearless brumes
standing behind the eye and its vision
the soul and its mission
the dark and its perception
another boyard gone insane
stuck with a face without a name
hindering and hampering the lame
impeding proses into flames
