Yes, this is a perfect life,
bubbling plasticene strife.
If immolation, it is a slow
one. "Maybe the hectare further,"
to "or at least mental absentia
turned to much sleep." in the interim.
The cul-de-sac is indignant, yes.
"Maybe there is a third side
of life." The reaffixed bonnet's
bundled under. It is quite cold.
Met you when I'd come to on
the waning half. Picture this;
me, maybe fiveteen percent to
ineptitude with a nosegay of irises.
Let's compromise: you can have
the whole city if I can die.
Compartmentalize, obfuscate, lie
to yourself and everyone else. Skin
spate when there is a shortage
of flesh. Flash mate when
it is dark and we have strobing eyes.
