this den clasps the innocent scribe

the sombre meekness of tales by ink pour out the constructs of an alien mind

canoe-ing atop the gentle river; keeper of seas, beholder of storms

by sweet conscience we slave the virgins by mortal fires to molt them into fine sculptures for our circus show; not absent their pleasure as they careen the virtues of sweeter vanity seeking more

is this not what they have asked for?