pins and needles and *******'s blaze
out-of-body-experience leaves me trembling for days

the lost conspire
for some oblong heresy:
the earth says must,
yet the heavens desist.

so long to hope,
or so they say,
that which leaves the soul
for better judgement.

or heaven yet
might visit your doorstep
and send you a sign
in the shape of a smile.

do i renounce my will & my ways?
is this the point of no return?
am i falling hard into doughnut-like-smelling glace?

am i doomed as the forsaken one? do i need to shun Your Grace?
shall i wake you up in a minute,
with cold tea and easterly-brewed eggs?

am i supposed to never let old habits prevail?
does the sole pen feel the need to shine in moonlight?
or am i mistaken (in need of ginger ale)?

do people really write less when things go their way?
why must i hate the sappy?
(how could i convey the same?)

so tell me, my darling, am i willing to take the bait?
is your warmth going to last forever?
will i come back to my previous stage?

in the surveillance of our story, 850 seconds perhaps, in glorified memory,
little jews open their eyes amongst the flaming sculptural spire
and the third of her name, Jerusalem, (is it him?)
(artistic was her surname)
unfortunately, her ID, consumed by torch & flame (.........)
another mourning, another brown, & soggy & tasteless ******* day
in which to despair at the state of her very purposeful Occidental ways
surrounded by fake patriotism & fourteenths & sevens & May
contrast the Marseillaise's rightful sudden death
     [ violet haze ]
the saddened by the tragedy
have more to lose at stake

The ordinary
Becomes the extraordinary
When the visionary
Depicts the good