Troubadour

Delirium has its inane denotation. Trivium is it not. Scruples of me are not palsy-walsy. I love you. Black arts, white noise. They say nocturnes are rays of first heaven. Sipping through my parsec of honest and lonely dawn.

At times, I’m lost on my own specter of lunatic labyrinth.

And thank you, for you are the radiance of my illusory trompe l’oeil, and thank you for bright shining stars, of my darkness.