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Mr. Elias; the concierge was a wretched little chap,
eyes reeking of insatiable hunger, he'd sure mastered the plaster of feebleness on his covetous laced hands
entrusted with the Marlowe heirloom which promised him travels to transtemporal lands,
in the bloodcurdling midwinter nights; he'd escape to sunken islands,
embracing his pyrrhic victory, he'd think of himself as a (deceptive) free man
but the clock of time made a full circle, and he found himself stuck in the trance
the woods got steeper and steeper, engulfing him all; with the cyclops of the land
penalised for his chimera, Mr. Elias compensated with his future, almost becoming a madman
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Throes of Spring ✔️
Poetry[FEATURED] godhood is just like girlhood: a begging to be believed
