mourning aubade

Inside the dome of the last exploration of the vast superior magnitude of the cerebral palsied languid aura of my prior breath, we see the dome of the rock unfolding like a paper mache’ swan. Here we go again, where anything you believe is manifested in truth—the last days of fiction, the plural magnitude of the forest inside the trees, where the last swan was swimming in congratulations of the opening aubade: a poem, about morning, or lamenting the mourning of the dawn.