Dear ghost,
Lend your straying ears to me, I am drunk on poem. Though I have not visited poetry in a while, I already stink with its perfume. If you peel off this ornamental lyric, the hideous acts might imple you to grimace. 'Cause only will you witness the contorted truth. Worst vices of poets have often been buried under a flower bed. I slumber on those beds. I charm you and hypnotise your reasons. Are you charmed, my love?
Yours even as I savour to be.