when one can’t exactly be the refinement
they wish to see in the world, some
times a scream in the void wakes
the rooster’s dream which came
first the stricken or the leg
it’s one hand or the other ways
we folly water uphill a good day
on precipice of thirst
sanctimony in a blighted vestibule
ragged and wheezing a parched man of scintillation, a weakness thrice stung like a wasp
might stab a berry picker thorn deep in flower, such wanton relish the smug
agents of righteous taunts revel in business of destruction how vile the monster
thousands decry and the age victorian skew litany of hapless text scarlet knew
of spittle and rage surely the mark was bait or our demon the hallmark such
scourge and bile blind amass what advocate harm befell the lass with a ten foot
pole i prithee foe