Crawford liked to marvel at his midnight reflections.
The philosopher's fodder. Prophecies, quipped nigh perfection.
Clipped like the 'just right' midsections of an inline
descent into vanity's clutches. It's this type of vantage he covets.
Emboldened, centered, no- he tampered with dozens.
Crimped into samples, sins spliced a glowing merit to justice-
when the squares of the serif carefully scuttled
by the narrowing stare of the sheriff- he's puzzled.
And to be fair, Pete's dog hadn't deserved it.
Such a grisly end. But when the columns of words
seemed so strongly concerted on cramping his fun,
he naturally cut them. Into flotsam, that spurted.
But he was a prophet. Observant. A solemn,
strong servant that just dabbled in murder
when his master grappled his shirt, then
explained away doubt with a morbid enchantment.
He would chase shadows of sound into
form-fitting phantoms.
The more that he sampled, it dragged him on down &
engorged his fealty's depths to the hands of
the fate that sealed each gasping breath.
What happened, on Earth,
matched all the words that his God had provinced
as a plot for his scripture, stitched in his conscience.
Epithets and apologies, stick a lot better when brief.
So then, the following is presented as evidence, please:
