Lucifer,

              Straight beneath this calenture, under this calescent light, I begin my contortuplicate flight. It seems slow and macilent, leaving a macrobian scent. Yet I take the leap of faith. Renders me a mesochroic wraith. Such a metagnostic state, twisting deep my love of fate.
              Then the dark and brooding moon, shows my true incondite silhouette. Showers me with loving hate, memoirs of a sweet rosette. Indictum sit and let it rest, words that I seem to detest.
                So leave me be, in this indurated sleep, in my mind, where shadows creep. An operose task, such an ecdemic existence, pushed forward by my own persistence. 
                This enthetic feeling soon will disappear, tearing apart my crystal sphere. Thus this fremescent streak of consciousness slowly gains weight, becoming more and more difficult to equate.