Acendemic: A Portmanteau
Who stands, the crux left of the watershed bearing with the catarrh of the twilight that sinewy sight that strove of sound unsaid. What lip eschews the running Muse, its maw on spring’s aphasic drear; uncounted seer quietly tearing from the height, appalled and short-stocked sitting on the wrested watch arranging useful cogs of livid ash to pride the fire of its balderdash; gone home and back again, aroused to taste taller than grass and …