there's nothing unexpected
to come of
             a temporal being,
and what "is",
   is either too stupid to
make a replica of (
     digested subconsciously
and attached en masse,
or too ),
               or too "heroic"
to made amends of,
             relegated to public
posturing and the vain attempts
of hiding, if not merely
riddling a yawn...
          how man categorised
himself as digesting
subsequent rubrics along
the lines of mortality,
       i don't know,
         but being, said, temporal,
while nibbling on
the unfathomable instance
of the spatial coordinate...
      came the thought
of a pigeon with a stump
   for a clutch of a fathomable
itch for a nail...
        and London,
in the distance,
    ever more,
      demanded of itself,
   the sort of Wordsworth dream
it could digest,
   if ever, contemplating
                         its girth.