Kosative D.
Here is where the willows blow. Where the raised sheaths condense the flares cool snow. Where the monocles hang by the noose and time is its own recluse. Tickers will stop to the skipping blur, vestals significant to the regular irritation. Where a secret can be bound in two-where demons wash in open view. Where spewing lumens seize to be sewn Kosative D. talks the neglected world.
Kosative D. is a creator who bestows furor to thought about rhyme and rhythm. He plays with words like mud, finding greatness with nauseating fear and clean between each hold back A symphony of words; music for the mind. All intersection the unwritten lines of a philosophical kind. He squirms the harp of the pen-shakes each sentence with racket and thereafter hurls ink to the ruthless voids of this world. Goodness! The channels gathered the miracle! For some place down in the cavern I waited. Some place down in the cavern I searched for what showed up for so long, such a long ways off. Where time itself had set up tea for an early lunch off the feigns of Glen Car—some place down in the unpleasant high nations, where even the air happens on, I remained. Wandering around and around and circles—trifectas even outlined, the buildup would mumble secrets to the maddening obsession I searched for—yearned for! The outdated light of legends. Prisoner in its limits, The Genie: Rinksle. An old story from my father bore the sleeve of a detestable quality. This inferred the legend was faint and not to be investigated. He told me: let the wisp stay silent in its grave. He forewarned me of its toxicity—its hostility, powerfully woven into its metallic packaging; that is it. He showed me in my youth that I displayed something like a touch of grace of silver, a phenomenon—bendable and shining, strength irritated to its greatest advantage. Especially adaptable like soil, I could call mind blowing knowledge and power in my life, if by some fortunate turn of events I were to follow the manners in which he'd laid for me. I ignored his cravings clearly; for when he passed on, a solace bore me prepared. I could barely channel through those bothers, but yielded I would search for this legend for a wish.
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