Oft have I found myself
peering through the mists of fleshy conceptions,
and oft have I beheld the reversed crevices
that give form and commensurate with the essence
of ill-begotten ancestry and tomb-forged embrace
to be kept in mausoleums that insidiously walk with promises most innocuous.
Neophyte waters infirmly flow on gravel rivers and poison strokes,
helplessly subject to the beast that rides them
from the mast of the softly strong vehicle of the soul upon this world.