Under a stitched sun
And a macrome moon,
I hunt words,
Trapping them in my bell jar.
See how the little monsters run!
Peckish, I must track them.
My teeth are faint with hunger.
Oh Candelabra! Do come back!
It will be painless, I promise.
Quintessential, I have you cornered.
The heavens shudder at my
Vicious verbosity.
Miniature Moon 