The tar-pitch stare of your twin sibling scimitar sights resembles a bullwhip's warfare and the fat-steel downthrust sag of blood, ink, and fury. Laquered with ripe fats of veal velvet-footed and doe-eyed, porcelain crescents milk foalhide; one's routine is another's ordeal. And while constellate star lights wrap your will-o-the-mist halo's flare - the hollow hue shift of eventide - my mulberry syrup dyes your black cherry dinnerwear; but all what stalks my last breath, is not a thing such as death.