The siren is monotone, a strain from a Neanderthal bone flute. fold in the manner of accordions, divide into more arches. crossbrace, entwine like caducei, hold up the skyline. forsaken, what scales the thirst for grace?
There must be some purpose for spires in a place of no religion. sweep through passages and fretwork, temperatures drop. dusk, in apnoeic breaths, aspirates like a punctured lung. readjust in caligari coffins, smile for no reason at all. occupy virtual spaces, spend their nights alone. defies principles and purpose.
remain unsilent, while the girl runs away with stick and wheel? hirsute observer stands, tamping down his jekyll self. searches for iterant valjeans, wants no rambos on his beat. keep the peace, under the awnings retail sprawls.
The crowquill scratches parchment, dry retching, out of ink. recomposed in casual cursive, stretches out in broken verse.