The soul on my tongue
dances with personal phantoms,
who pose as princes
in the fashionably fucked up times.
I suppose I am the wrong ilk of misfit,
a face twisted inside a cruel snicker.

To me, they whisper.
(It rapes my mind,
a plantation of the worst thoughts possible.)

The tongue of your soul
refines every atom in sprightly matter,
caressed by the faraway flush of your Muse.
You speak with charging colours, penetrating the fog
until the molecules of a memory are resolute.

And any dying dream dweller's eyes would smile -
(I know you will let me be anew.)

I hope my words will be felt the most
when with a voice it can be dispensed.
For I crave to be wrapped around your tongue,
and sent like a firing lyric.
Sew these lips that were dipped in illicit waters,
with the violet craft, beneath your soul.
Then let me dance until I fall (asleep)
with your own glittering ghosts.