Late, plain Arcadia lost, far dot deliver!
Le dogme, open ode, pool, idle if.
Put salt on mirror rim. Laud not a sliver
of straw on devil's eye. Flow at one riff.
Low, midair, as no omen, I fled north.
Gilded rib's trap. Mist. Sacred roses. Ire.
He, rife. Rife, I negate, slip upside worth.
Oh, trowed is pupil. Set a genie fire.
Fire. He rises. Order casts, imparts
birded light rondel, fine moon's aria, dim.
Wolf. Fire not! A wolf eyes lived now arts,
for evil sat on dual mirror rim.
Not last upfield, I looped one poem. Gödel
reviled to draft, so laid a cranial petal.
Note: This poem has not yet been published and is available upon request.