and each night i find myself attempting
"compatibility"
with these universe sons and daughter,
i find myself attempting sooner
incompatible than compatible,
with these loves, who turn out to be
simply vanity projects,
and, oddly enough,
                   it never breaks my, heart;
i already known that i cry at
sentimental values,
and these wordsmiths?
          burp...
                       hardly prayers sent
via the postman of the wind
to the endless tier tornado of
the god's throne;
more like farts trapped in a bottle
of carbonated water,
with an evil jinni to speak first;
which always ends up being:
a joke.