so slipshod is this sylph,

cyclical sins sinking slowly,

spoiling the sinless straight at the source,

surely, is not your very ossein saturated and sore,

swathed in the sludge of my silvery subterfuge,

slithering steamy and sticky

from the Styx of my synapses,

can you still sense the succor in my suspiring,

suspiciously tip-toeing up until side-by-side -

but with a sputter, shattering that nearness

now superseded by a scintillating sibilant.

sluggish starvelings swill all around,

"unseal your eyes, observe,

survey the stem of a new day in efflorescence,

safeguard the sight of the sun freshly blossoming."

Ah, so saccharine these sinewy, skeletal susurrations,

sliding swiftly to smear a stupor throughout my psyche.

At the summit of the spire,

stinging shivers skating down my spine,

I am too slumberous, my friends;

trace the seam of where my sight has been sewn up,

I will dream of you.