Linen

But it wrinkles. Can you not presume

age of its own accord self-diminishes?

Surface of the skin pulps down into 

miraglass soothsaying ad valorum 

tentacles the ace of pentacles half

certain but promoted as prolonged.

Chromatic estate plans lingering 

among fossil fuel points gladiating.

Gilded lamp light sinks say shadow consumers

consumptive as a color wheel in heat.

Shelve the elbow room and proudly scream

about your rights you never threatened to lose.

A pointed finger a ringer tossed into 

the fray; is that you peaking out from the peak?