Rite 1.

A distorted visage,

a ransom decoupage,

a burnt circle of sage,

a tiring time of age.

One orchid dyed blue,

on rock heated to cook,

obstructing the ant's view,

Occlusion to the crook. 

Cube's with rounded edges,

curious granules etched inside,

panels in formation to lock,

smoke escaping, sounds of sighs.

Marvelous flames of white,

Maiden names of peasants old,

Masking smoke inside their lungs,

Masterfully singing-a-song-yet-sung.

A pieced puzzle of a view,

a reoccurring sight of you plus two,

a tampered veil that has been skewed,

a priceless act controlled by you.