Phantasos lingers: crouched, hunched,
nose buried in borrowed poppies.
He is fragments and run-ons taken out of context,
stygian white and green as sin, failing wings over lakes,
bookends and lampshades scrawled with Ovid
and those ciphers from which
we have built the world.
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140,586 Literary Works • 673,540 Reviews
I enjoyed this - and this is a fair piece of work, as long as you are aware that what you have written is nothing more than what it is striving to define.