Writhe, Young Snakeskin-Haunted People Of This Floating World, And Find Your Way To The True Fountain.

I lay my bell-cry out, aloud from under creed of night, rioting in loadstone-mangled hands with crashburnt eyes, torn apart by fire. Flowing from tongue-induced wounds, three-souled breathfeathers embrace the daystar’s brilliance. Touchstones gather in water-stirruped windchannels, whipped aloft in softheard fury peals. No rhythm in the chest makes up for sound of rain. I angle dreams together with white winter blossoms crowded into ice along pond’s edge.