Oh, cynic-
All those years of abridging the files left for you-
And whittling away at your own tusks-
To annex wild nerve and stove-top instinctivity-
Extemporising on an instrument that you actually did invent-
And then using it to pry open the kitchen window-
Asking the neighbor for a sword of keratin straight to the belt-
“It would show that I am, literally, made of (fitfully) lifeless halves.”
Anyway-
There’s that old-dresser where you stored plans of-
Delineating a white-white city for you to call home-
and then instructions to call it anesthetized due to it’s lack of horses-
Destroy it and all matter within a one-hundred mile radius of your current location.
I’m aware the end-product has cradled you since the first day you were alive-
but, it doesn’t anymore-
I do-
and I will not let my arms grow soar without affording them your recognition.