What he is afraid of is not die rolls or white foam with refract- -ed premises that refuse to let bend.
There is more:
Footholds in spires minding loose, jagged
rock the birds harkened for, some hundred
days in making peace with their wailsongs.
Binding the ravage to several strings taut wills do not let tight hearts cross. Laminas the rot slips under. Eroded, flailing, terminally
pained by a spiking dogma. Dorsal handfuls cast away in struggling to roost in the dawn light they use to spread evenly on their toast.