By The Walrus
A collection of arcane verse
I come to you and you freeze, bitter and poised like a praying mantis plotting all possible futures on the tawdry graph of life.
And now, in the milky cloud of his worship for you and only you I sense a luminescence seldom seen, a delicacy rarely tasted and almost never known completely.
It is good to be a satyr and a Saxon, a scholar and a sentimental fool in the same jumbled package, I think.
I had an inkling that I would find you here at the bottom of the undulating cow pasture carpeted with magic mushrooms and destroying angels.
The fluids within your secret chambers vary from crystal clear to inky black, from amber to the dusty blue of your eyes.
Words clashed in his head, warmed him, hurt him or merely teased and made him smile, their multifaceted meanings lost on the wind or disbelieved.
As the dawn was breaking I dreamed a dream of three sentient beings rustling in the straw of a shadowy stable.
Mystery Babylon the great, mother of harlots and sundry abominations of the Earth. Is this a mystery to you?
I long to hear the pitter-patter-fizz of acid rain eroding the dank roof my mausoleum.
My lady hides her precious face under the busiest thoroughfare, a conveniently frantic place where bustling humanity mostly fails to suspect her presence.