increasingly weary of muzzle artists and sayers of all things NAY, while our scant universe is ever given over to a very seemingly puckered version of an intellectual desert. and, refrain from telling me just how one version of fodder differs from another. we all feed something.
and I missed the pageant of the planets,
while securing my place among the upper echelon of the obscure.
a fully medicated and tenuous position to be sure.
the ground is not where you tread before.
it is not our fucking world anymore.
and we missed the point of the planet,
while waiting for the firmament to swoon for us.
like placing our children in the jaws of Cerberus.
guilty of breaking the blockade of grief,
reason usurping the very nature of belief.
so, the cobwebs and the relinquishment of control may just have a name after all. nothing to do with the King's English, or any syllable known. it's a language of twitches and sneers and imposed acceptance. it's a dialect of passive disaster.
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