Our sky all it contains
Canopy a galley’s bottom
Ere-expanding reach
Elements mimic each
Fire eminent as storm
Wind like pasture
Salvation a thousand years away
Chaos reigning thereafter.
Abandoned spawning pits
Thrones of lichen
Overgrown, eczema’d with climbery
Otherworldly foliage violently-spined
Climbing salvage rusted ginger
Things one finds only at some sylvan sphere’s unreachable selvedge
Self admiring thousandeyed, prizing reflection caster’s equal
Smiles and grammars my glibness outlasting.
Guinness poured in one go, headless acéphale’s painless beheading
Pins like sharp coronas plume my flank
Wear of my dress, its unsewn hem
My clockwound breath
My life ending in death
Evidences that I am a thing living, or a thing made, primed like a charge
Walking like a nutcracker, cog animate but incognito
Louder resulting, empty vessels’ insulting loudness
Do ill the quiet proud, quite proud of own quietness
Word free of pen, pick of quick peltast’s cache.
Alchemisland 
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