I promise I am that fool of which I speak
The powerlines prowess admits to me,
In its careless potential and off color decree,
But I do not listen to it’s evening exposé,
Opt for inspecting the way it’s wires bend and contort in the breeze
The cut in the cord and the energy it seeps,
The pensive cold blue of rapid release

It’s burnt and **** and treats me with a saga of distaste
I sway wishing for the musty lust in the tangible fillet
A muddled display of connectivity, after it’s time and still I hope not too late.
In all the contact reveries, you will not find one of such dismal elation
Just a spark in need of a metaphysical escalation
I plead for a being I cannot fool