this place surrounds his voice like only it shall – sounding the remainder right out, a Van Gogh-esque painted picture of unimaginable perfection
People sit to wait, toy with fate amidst am otherwise wicker working-day – when slaves to the system pray by his Nike Air feet
he takes to this electrifying microphone – scintillating for its unashamed syntax alone – and begins to unravel a hundred or so marvelled at stories, all of which stitch a listening ear to its rightful instrument of bellowing, terrifically mellowed-out kinds
his voice, namely
hellbent upon construction all over again, deconstruct to perfect ’til settled downright
and the penny tends to finally drop, they getting to stand aside see him for exactly what he is – gladly
a fat and bloated poet with a mind-altering tale to tell
and the round-of-applause simply floors him