Dear Owl Princess
Play pretty room stuffer, here is a heart
beating dispersion drums, been nailing itself
to years ago, verbal wisps
but cannot enfold or hold
Spirit Language, tongue suitcase carried
by a hooded letter (strolling typeface!)
from a cave of Fantasticobra.
Where roofs lift off
to leave guild tassels flapping,
hinted coven in a lisp,
utterances guaranteed to gimp,
in the reliquary aegis
where planets meld and moor together
stars are tossed as salads, a dome for any
betrothal ring ever hurled seaward.
This is the rib of prime I guess, happening black, to have it,
hop along beak, heaped 'n free bake, my Happy Book Hotel.