Random acts of vandolism

Mr. Darkus sat,
Deep in tranquil thought..
Internal cogs turning,
Like the magical sweep hand of a
-cuffed and shackled to this-
Keepsake slave master timepiece
(For we're all slaves to time)
Deepest lines so intricate,
Swarm in a
Million mosquito cloud
Of thought
As
Fluidly, the upstroke of
An L,
His hand writes out
The sonnet of the century,
With the poetic foundation
To concrete this poet
Into the annals of hostorical literature,
As though Poe himself
Climbed,
From the pits of hell
To scratch in parchment
That...
One final stroke of brilliance
Thought of,
Only upon his final breath...
At his miment of death.

As the masterpiece flowed forth
Mr. Darkus
Scribed out in masterful timing
And impeccable format
The story of "I WILL BE TAUGHT IN CLASS
AS A STENCIL OF 'This is how to write'
CREDITS!!"
Classic renditions
Reincarnated to modern tongue and twists..
An epoch of proportions
Unknown,
Appears as a stain left by pigments foreign,
Beneath the utensil in motion
In the surgical precisioned hands
Of Dr. Writer,
From "Storytown,  Equilibrium Confused"..
Elated at the aspect of writing
Mankinds next
"Iliad"
Mr. Darkus snaps
Violently back to reality,
In gross realization that,
Somehow,
In a daydream haze
He in deep regret,
Gets to explain to Dr. Rosenthal's family,
How his newly dead skin
Became adorned
With freshly pocked carvings,
(As though a cave dweller of yesteryear)
In fashion of
"New era Iliad."
Crimson blood scroll,
At the point of a scalpal..
"Dr. Rosenthal unfortunately,
 WILL NOT be ready
For his wake tomorrow"...
Explained Master Mortician Darkus...
"Random act of vandolism"...