THE DANCE OF THE DEAD MYELIN.

I

FOOL QUESTION, THE SAME ONE, 
THAT STRIPPED OF HER BRA.

WHAT EVER SHOULD HAPPEN...SHALL HAPPEN.

TURNING, ON A LEFTY WHEEL.

AS A NIPPLE, BY A BRAINLESS INDEX CRUSHED.

CRUSTLESS, WITHOUT ITS BONE’S HAT, AND STILL ABLE TO THINK.

HOISTED THE CURTAIN, OF A THEATHER FULL OF NESCIENCE,

MYOPICS OF LONGLY FACES.

DECKED WITH SILK, THOUSAND PADS SHOWERED OF SPANGLES.

FRAGANCES OF EXPENSIVE NAMES,

LIVING A SMELL OF FRIGHT AT THE COMET TRAIL.

PREPARED, CRAMPED AND SWEATY FOR SITTING, THOUSAND PRATS.

SHALL DANCE TWELVE, ON GLOVERED THUMBS,

DRESSED OF PINK PASTEL AND LACES.

DANCED THE BALLERINAS AWAY.

PLAYYING THE ORCHESTRA, THE MYELIN’S OEUVRE.

THOUSAND OF CRAZY NEURONS, SEARCHED ANOTHER PLACES.

AT THE END OF THE APPLAUSE, THEY FALL ONE BY ONE.

IN THE PRELUDE, WAITING AS THE WATER THE DRY.

NEVER OPENED, THE EYELIDS DEAD OF THE CLAMS.

IN SILENCE, WAITING,THE KISS OF ONE EYED PRINCE.