he pours out, his coctions
conned with too-cunning smile
from these gullible tips of wilting
pushed by a pouting posy.
Its bunched buds weep chartreuse then slink
off into the waited
years of welcoming swallows.
Their needle wings paired with calls pierce
the sky's purple-black bruise,
revealing light, stenciled clues
he sorely needs to fly himself
up to shivering heights.
Once shin-deep in substrata
routes flooding forth from badly zoomed
maps, his questions run
afoul. Ascot-wrapped but choked,
the relentless sinks to unhealthy
altitudes, and he falls
through stained ceiling of acid
nave where his fancy first took off.
— Francis Scudellari
(I built this poem using the found words of verification prompts from blogs on which I've left comments recently. Some were whole words, like shiver. Some were near words, like coction. Some were mere gibberish that my mind filled out into words; for example, acinv became acid nave.)