Your pupils buzz like declining carnival lights, & your hands move like reluctance in high heels

Your phrases stumble out, knocking into that syntactical lamp post the keen call "tongue-tied".

Your shoe laces would make great ribbon pasta, with a touch of blood red sauce and olive oil tears.

Your cloudy curls hum with the activity of that misguided swarm the doctors call "agitated overthinking" .

Your arms hang long, draped with the golden moss of pubescence, weighed by the leaves & twigs that scrape the surface of logical revelation like harsh chalk.

Your voice, the uneven droplets from the faucet, wets the crevices of one's invisible compassion.

Your are the Princess of the Absurd, the red-coat orphan on a suburban, spray-painted Saturn.