Scissors of solitude nip at my inwardness. 
There is no cruor, expressions of anxiety
burst in workmanship of others bents and
beauties. Grains on banisters of time are 
evocative of spent winters, woozy summers.
Xanadu of letters never abandon my xyst.



The chiffonier stacked no cookie jar.
I had to gun for confitures in every 
nook and cranny of my unreality. The
thoroughfare was fraught with queries
of the unkind sort. There was safety
in shunpikes or with oneself.

Heartless acts are commissioned by
soft hearts. Or those who visualize 
themselves in such a cut. This is the
condition of the human construct. 
Rapscallions identify with right-minded 
qualities. Error is in the frame of reference.



As I age I notice new lovers splash 
their scars chop-chop, faster than 
we used to when young? Does age 
rescue from high-handedness of 
oners. Love is not for leptodermous:
onerosity of lovers braces me to 
believe, heart has no paraph. This 
love must end. I am on the lookout 
for spagyric rays to cover me. 



Loneliness doesn’t believe in stealth.
In spite of our itch to eclipse its
insignia, its ornate patterns assert
their existence. The inattentive reader
thumbs a tome to declare the intent,
shadow of seclusion chaperons the lip 
and ledge of the isolated.