Spin Spun into Fibers of Infinite Verses and Meters. A Wick and Oil

The Death Doctors of Knowledge are cooking
up Dreams, Slicing them Open Unsacred,
dehearsed and Damned Straight to Devilish
Highway, No-God Territory Rettoned
as a Butterfly Upon a Wooden
Splinter, it Sits Without Diffficulty,
A Music Deep Within Abides with Masks
preferred by the Mortals and Masters, Toms
of TapDancing Polyrhythmically Bare
I become what they Detest with Reason,
A Shrew with a Volatile Wick, Oils,
and Bruises, Pricks embossed with Purpose
Intended to Break the Eggshell Spin Spun
into Fibers of Infinite Verses and Meters.