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In inglenook, I found erstwhile,
during the incipience of a fire
that lilt to its own loquacious pops
mellifluous as a lyre,
Like the finest garb of gossamer
(thus imbuing with halcyon
an ingénue lithe and jejune)
a felicitous elysium.
my skin inspissating
imbued with a lagniappe of light
my etiolating now evanescent
fugacious forgotten, and, as always, trite.
And O! how lithe the flame
as it pulsed with imbrication
as if I were the listless moiety
in some subconscious juxtaposition.
And in my lassitude
viewing the splendor of its dance
I almost succumbed, subconsciously,
as it ventured to inure me in its trance.
Alas, at hand, behold! a glass
Half empty, not quite half full.
and Like a trebuchet or catapult
threw the vessel, liquid and hull
and I, the terpsichorean flame,
assassinated thus,
and in its leaving
murmured only susurrous
and in its leaving
furnished the room with nebulous