​There’s a breath of laughable death, a whore’s delight;

Spiritually wanton,

It stays in the eyes,

the expression of the dead.

Pixie dust is powdered 

listlessly, to charm

the heart of magic.

Attaining the kinetic heights, unwrapping the sequined kismet;

Streaming bulwarks demolished to hold a sylvan lake occult,

Cessation of hostilities, creation of art…

To the unselfishly primal one, montage of carnal hues.

Silver memories, rise on silent sighs…

The law of the land says,

Tramps cannot kiss the misty mouths of creators seeking silken solace;

Where the sages loved the divine, amongst words decoded by the lover’s precence.

Mists of trysts which evanesce through me, are imbued again;

The hazy nights follow a resilient meal

Decode the script?