From the top of an overwhelming

rooftop of sophism

the mute pigeons.

In front of the cinnamon taste,

fraudulent frames of

a false bespoke universe.

What was the taste?

Enhance me now.

Tell me where the universe was taken,

where’s the candid revolution,

the framed caviar canapes,

and the sweet wine they promised.

Where are they?

Just to bevel our

bitter, sharped corner.

Shabby, shocked, holes

that as an incunabulum move,

blind across the brain maze.

A glimpse of thought

throughout a tear,

a breed of fear.

Muted hues.

And then the mute pigeons. 

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