With wind crisped on finger tips and crystal crust thickening and each square foot another degree cooler another spreading of and cooling of and when I need to be empty I spread until I am zero degrees and everything stops and I fall apart into the densest clump and another thing, why are you trying to see through me?

Driftwood figures are fishes and carved like totems into the skin of and bones of and when I'm out of conjunctions I spit to stick my words together and when I can't walk no more I swagger so I don't stagger I can expand at a thousand feet per second I can spread until I am all around and when you seem to see through me it's just into the back of me again and why, really why are you doing that anyway?

Cranberry wine is the color of my secret which I have told to be vacuous and under ever meaningless word and into each empty phrase it breathes 0.001% of chlorine gas so no one man must be a mustard and I am not always breathing death.  I think Smaug went flying because he was tired of the underside of the mountain and really didn't mind much that his horde was hobbitted and Another breastplate hole is filled when I am too tired to talk through things and even my autopilot poet cant find another word