Nakedly exposed, an inventor remains comfortably ensconced

Feet embedding themselves til hard-strained – each a piece of the next great anticipatory masterpiece which forever feels the heat

A body of lionhearted work – the constant if irregular and awry process, wherein the letter home truly gets to fending for, and writing itself

Never to be posted
Utter, complete, amateurish and chaotic be-havings, to perhaps have-not and by thankless way of straight-out inadequacy

This appears to be the long-winding barren-spell which brings with it sweet, sweet delirium

Destruction is nearby and it feels… rather alright?

A gambled shot-in-the-dark will none too gently lend itself to all-or-nothing creation til hellbent and hellish by nature

He might be a masochist, a natural-born enabler
A cauldron catches agonised fire – too hot to touch, touch it and we die by the sword

An inventor has been changing almost completely overnight it seems – this is the early-a.m. break-down

A sense of senseless, whiskey-enticed humour attempts to move, meander and traipse its way in atop inner-circles of far-reach

He’s been empty-reaching again, and these dregs of disgust drink at my nostrils

Too far to hook-and-eye, too hard to handle – his looking-glass of portrayal has been long past smashed

And a riotous reflection annihilates a man’s improper imagination

And his juvenile and crying reaction is of murderous control again – suddenly

Yet, still, he continues and by the darkness of a most silent and wonderful life

I stand naked each and every other day, waiting for him to make sense of myself, let alone of he

Hard to believe it, but he sees the workings of the world as perfectly perched as any one person might do