crawling.

it was enough for me

to swivel "no"

when you asked

with a grand proclamation,

"come...!"

majestically strolling

with your good pages

down the echoing halls,

happily inebriating air,

you, sir,

good old liar of 

repressed intentions

floating aimlessly,

touching barely the toy

that is your conscious.

you, sir,

wondrously bad worker

of recycled magic,

shooting through stoned

eyes of yesterdays yet

to awake for the present.

you, sir,

swiftly passing over

the fat exaggeration

of my pained fingers,

outlining my wave,

swivel,

no.