This Is What A Man Sees In A Meeting Of Words, That Worlds Out Of Time Can Not. The Passages From Once Absurdity And Then Free-Falling Out Of Such A Cradle... To Then Grasp A Notion To Formations Of Seemingly Jumbled Vocalitys... InTo Sharpness And A Spider's Bite. Such A Trivial Mass For Some To Sweep ASide... But For Others With Different Mothers... The Pages May Call For A Summoning Cry, To SomeWhere Forgotten... A Notch InTo The Tree, With WhatEver Ink May Come Forth To Speak.
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This Is The Eye Of Midnight... L'Oeil Du Minuit... And In This Amongst Its Comedys Are The Lines Drawn. They Are Drawn To As Well As From... Never To Bring Forth Tears; Perhaps For The Best Of The Sighted Can Those Days AWay From Such Wetness Be Read And Seen To Be Flipped Dry...
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Watch These Words Fly Like Ashes In The Flame... And Let Them Tuck You In... Some Sleepy Mountains Have Yet To Grin.
