As if the whole inferno. It’s a melodrama
for any gambler embroidered with bells
on her vest who knows if you over-attention
your syntax, every surface is fustian at best.
The sound played is of many foghorns.
All the time I had been dreaming of lost prisms,
the hand’s plumage and drift. This is one reason,
I think perhaps I drowned in so many puddles
posing as rivers, the eloquence of mirrors.
You are right to detest your inner pyro.