I would be a revolusionist for a golden age for language. I would shatter lexicons of learned alphabet into kaleidoscopic shards to take them all and rearrange them into something as mellifluous on the tongue as you are on the eyes; I would scribble scriptures into the frayed margins of tentative knowledge and invent something more substansial of describing overflowing abundance of ways in which you dazzle, you dazzle more than millenia worth of ultraviolet luminescence.
I would discover hieroglyphs on murals and scrawled sanskrit in shipwrecked recount, to revive them and restructure them; polish them into serpentining monuments that could attempt to amount to the boundaries breadth of my ardency, arcane architecture that would always dimish the depth of my adoration.
I would finish writing dictionaries in my feverish mania to convey the sheer heights at my love scrapes the edges of the andromeda, empyrean desideration in my desperation I would deconstruct every lexeme that has curled around my teeth in utterance, only to piece them all back together in devastating declarations.
