The Echoing Yell Laid Low,
All Once Guilded Now Rubble,
In Scorn Of Lovers Guided By None OutSide,
Fools And Their Circles OverHead For Halos And Lost Veils,
With UnderWater Kingdoms Washed AWay,
To Where Be The Intended For Seers To Pierce,
In The Rounding Of The Desolate Crawl,
Played As Cards UpOn The Revolving Door,
InTo HallWays Where Blackened Paintings Hang,
Not Hidden By Soot… No… To Scrape One’s FingerNail Across Canvas
Will Reveal…
…
A Scratch Made InTo Memory’s Delicate Shade,
Where That Mark Might Be Further Widened,
And To Peer InTo Its Distended Window…
…
…
Never The Emptying Vessel For Wanting An Audience,
A Jar WithIn A Field WithIn A Negative Lock,
Under Spells For Killing The King With Randomness,
Lay’d As Dominoes UpOn The Painted Floor,
InTo Walls Peeling From Near Once Sainthood Sang,
Caught Forbidden By Set Pieces…
…
No Pipeings To Mete Forwards To Scruples,
Done Only With Its Singer’s Curse,
Whose Voice Not Be As Tattered As Its Vestige,
Vascular And Frozen In Claustrophobeic Implications…
…
It Stitches Nine UpOn One’s Lives,
And Leaves All SpeechLess By The Opening Scene…
…
…
Can That Only Be What The HeadLess Bishop Wishes For (?)
As DayLight Ascends And His Dreams Melt AWay?

More at http://rwkt.blogspot.ca.