Coming through. Cutting through illusions. Odd. It’s coming true.
All I write. Near-blue ink sere-seeming distinctively alives my rhymes;
Writing, writhing seerlike, by candlelight
Wick littling as I trick light into lines.
Miscreant shapes, feline schemifiers.
Jack Greys scraping my steamified casement
Scrapes from the basement.
Shades or perhaps a griffin’s shape upon the cabinet.
Want cannot be worse than not having it.
Never the academy favourite but the odd flavour of my elaborations
I hope shall see my flame raised. Long stasis, scourging excoriations
The pain of being unsated. Silence, the cheesegrater.
Alchemisland 
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