ravenous tastemaker

Can Xue thread.

There never was rose-hologram
As rises in my mental eye,
Nor ever one received the sham:
And now the giver's on the lam
Who safely tells

With all the wasted poems once flung
That hologram will always bloom
And after this deceitful tongue
Has fizzled out, no longer young,
A rose remains

What Borges hymned, what Milton held,
What green Graywyvern might in trade
For at that time so sore a weld
Let go of, though a cat thus belled
Still jingles on.