welp, life goes on... and on... and
ontological leanings lose their meaning
when the reclining 8's wings are clipped
and lands like dead weight:
big bang on the platter --
oh, such clutter, prancing for the long wait
we all hate, but adore, twoo, with abandon
and utter dis, regard for the vineyard
lost to the sobering strides of burning...
feet, bound by no destination, save for
E(=)motion long-stranded in the helix
of gene-use and spiraling hues indie
infinite speck-trim of an eye-tear-ate-id
dictum of larve, garb, love --
chick-hen feat, 4 thee:
ex, why see?