The young captain’s ship softly sleeps at the docks, that smell of wine & rum. Where he writes of the trailing escapades of which the sailors sung! For he knows seldom but this land of birth, as conversation is the caravan in which he travels, Inking photographs of sound, for these lively streets are the theater he's found, & the gargoyles lean in to listen... Pitching lines in the pub, & I starve to state the words they sense, for they cannot be heard. Sculpted in stone & fated to lie like a seraphim slain in its cradle, but when will the noose of Odin be severed with the blade of wisdom's dagger?! As the crows oracle is only felt at the flashback of midnight's peak! Oh daybreak, you are but a dancer in the shadows of this ballroom. Unbridled by the lusts of a pure art! & you roam about in this quiet countryside like a headless heathen on the run, Stalked by the harrowing trigger of an impulsive marksman's gun. As funerals are the future... So, Come! Come! Celebrate & Gather! For these catacombs bear the pleasant air of a fragrant coffee shop.