I speak in metaphors
Thread wound in pleasure for whomever
A strongscented bauble for every endeavor
Flavoring air as a luscious reprieve
Relieved of the deeds we needlessly breathe
To sigh in a heave is divine indeed

A man of the mist
Of secret trysts and stolen kisses
Solitary pleasures by esoteric blisses
Even I sometimes wonder why I engage in this
Misfit conduct of self-righteous wit
A fit indeed of frivolity, needlessly
Freed pleas in obscurity mired from society
Blinded by lies, provided in pride by me
Provided you try to be an ear to my piety
An unknown hero dies alone, indeed

And that's why I breathe the lies you see
Flowers are falsities -- why shouldn't I be?

Penned by my hand on the 20th of Sarapin, in the year 358 AF.