Bourbon vanilla rolls off the tongue. Sweet softness, sticky promise. Empty velvet, smooth. Entrancing, hypnotic, compass turns to chaos, no true north. Tilted, through the looking glass I do not see you so. Your threats, your aberration, no. Hollow hope, thinly pasted upon the breath of beasts. Looming brightness take flight, for this tunnel has grown deep. Mossy banks, delight no more, falcon’s wings, a steady beat.
