That bitterless not ssweet taste o' divine
A putrid rock in cheek see not the damned
But lucidly makes boastful, fistful, words hammed
That lord of the flies is not truly swine
The effort last ditched in place perfect pitch
Fruitless nights of ποιέω in cafe
Finding no Sylvan words for beings fae
Discovering days withheld of the bitch
Moonlit horrors' tumultuless fever
Weights not the least dense of my worst days' day
Festering stones in tongueless cheeks don't pray
That the Sun hoists days as with moon's lever
The Poetic gesture of my own night
Is that I will be forgotten in spite.
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