Dear Owl Princess

Play pretty room stuffer, here is a heart
beating dispersion drums, been nailing itself
  to years ago, verbal wisps
however changeling, 

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.
  Welcomes you,

  Tallabius Gallom

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