Kosative D.

Here is the place where the willows blow. Where the elevated sheaths liquefy the flares cool snow. Where the monocles hang by the noose and time is its own hermit. Tickers will stop to the skipping fade, vestals profound to the natural aggravation.
Where a mystery can be bound in two-where devils wash in open view. Where regurgitating lumens seize to be sewn Kosative D. talks the unexplored world.

Kosative D. is an author who imparts frenzy to considered rhyme and cadence.
He plays with words like mud, tracking down excellence with sickening dread and polish between each refrain An orchestra of words; music for the psyche. All crossing the unwritten lines of a philosophical kind. He fidgets the harp of the pen-shakes each sentence with cacophony and afterward heaves ink to the brutal voids of this world.

Goodness! The channels harvested the wonder! For somewhere down in the cave I lingered. Somewhere down in the cave I looked for what appeared for such a long time, so far off. Where time itself had set up tea for an early lunch off the bluffs of Glen Car—somewhere down in the rough high countries, where even the air comes to pass on, I stayed.

Meandering around and around and circles—trifectas even framed, the residue would murmur mysteries to the enraging fixation I looked for—longed for! The antiquated light of legends. Hostage in its boundaries, The Genie: Rinksle.

An old story from my dad bore the sleeve of a vile quality. This implied the legend was dim and not to be researched. He told me: let the wisp keep quiet in its grave. He cautioned me of its noxiousness—its antipathy, supernaturally woven into its metallic casing; that's it.

He showed me in my childhood that I showed at least a bit of kindness of silver, an extraordinariness—bendable and sparkling, boldness angered in its interest. Exceptionally flexible like dirt, I could summon incredible insight and power in my life, if by some stroke of good luck I were to follow the ways he'd laid for me.

I overlooked his desires obviously; for when he passed on, a comfort bore me ready. I could scarcely channel through those distresses, however yielded I would look for this legend for a wish.

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