Into the Moss Into the Moss

Web-bound surveillance, karmic cycle's swift return, silk-spinner draws near.

Definitely, the Pencilman’s virility. Certainly it is.

With Obsidian, fault's with the candidate, or there's no fault at all.

Bouncing room to room, I crack the frigid coffin, play the circus post.

Yes, I've said some things. Lord knows what they could have been. The fruit of my hat?

Carefully, I stacked teetering paper towers on the dead staircase.