(no subject)
As the orator adjusts the lectorum,
as the silent crowd grows restless,
his voice projects from chriscendo of dialog.
To speak of these is naught to restless,
holding on, it carries penalty, I wanted to wonder.
Sip your wines, poured with malice,
left to the merciless sadist of the decanter.
Choke on your hypocrisy,
tire your anthem.
Love,
Matt.