If I let slip the joy I take in knowing hell ain't real,

that's cause you ain't me,
and there is a difference, deep down inside, some
kind pride,  my kind
ffestestical gee hosed the phat, *** that
one fact
from the entire mess of blue tooth cross signals, dude,
no wires
this is chaos of thought, but for the index
finger
think it touches sense of
some thing
soft and familiar,

look down, old man reflex to see the sleeping dog,
that no longer lays long days by his side.