This is what I am.
You must accept this blindly.
Take this blindfold.
Yell all you want.

Masking the ebullience,
the cork stops up a glass throat.
Myriad trails wander to the amber surface,
trapped within a beatific green reverie.

Morass of lines wraps itself warmly around,
in such a fine web, they criss-cross,
seperated into a fine ten digits dexterous in their motion.

Here, manifest looping prints.
Ephemeral absence of indentations reverse.
Fragments of transparent opacity glitter.
And the honey amber swirls descending.

A round foot comes to rest on the dark.
Its elegant companion lies lounging as a lozenge.
The flexible mechanism departs.
The glass, the bottle, the hand.