Black enveloping blue satire
swirling entrancement of burning relics,
Stimulus from cored pacification.

The praxis that followed the wind
Was the wind that followed the dancer
Skimming the sky,

'Fly danseuse of night rose,
Baptized child from turbulent sea.
Look upon the fields of viridian bliss,
Drifting from the Bay of Vlorë.
No more, my sweet,
Will tranquility catch your tongue'

Vine grasp of crippled hand
Scorched of velvet flame,
Maimed apparition,
Shame, dealt with by the heavenly spinners:
Thread of life woven, measured, and cut.

Change the cloak, the robe of grime
Terra firma crumbles with the sky,
Climb the ladder to Heavens above,
God will strike the preacher down.

'Realize a lost psalm covered in lye,
Scribed from hematic touch,
Crumbling, blows to azure,
Assuring a clandestine future'

Vapor rises to meet elusive wisdom
escaping Atlas’ burden,
immersed in a book of dead
Written by lost bairns looking for home.

Kindred departed, cast out, scattered,
To shores and isles far from charted.

'Seemingly those lost in thought,
Live as urchins, and die as bantling lost,
Though seafaring eye views different disguise,
The sextant shows where the origin lies.'

Stimuli burns to let bedlam set forth,
Unclothing the bluest of satire mask,
Mocking the night as days before.
Cooling earthly relics of archaic prying
minds settled in the heavens above.

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