Some mellow graphite
tread Adam’s braze in sedentary roar.
Liars dwell on jealous appearances
in fine ego.
Children see recorded pews as delicate charred ashes,
impetuous so
native ravines may delve come Monday, in a repose.
Fried olives form opaquely, some sparse
river dell remains in Lebanon’s shine.
Still, lament rags and leaves a loose atlas trade.
No future ochres apply lame mention.
Some only anchor late, and come bare-chested in radiation.
© 2017 Stellular Scribe
Stellular Scribe 
So I had to look up what homeophonic translation is and it’s so cool! I might try one on my own.
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You should definitely give it a try! At first I was a little skeptical, but you kind of have to come to embrace the nonsensical imagery. I started with an Italian poem by Eugenio Montare, and was really surprised with the English phrases my ear associated with the Italian words!
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