not sure how this goes... but it went.
it went south and bent my knee and troubled glum
the fuchsia ringlets of my armoured pollywogs.  
my unkissed toad. my croaking need.
it kept no secret sacred.

we are long gone. and more long writhing in vinegar and damp spruce.
we juice the dessicated fruits of our laborious orchards.
and chant useless news at light speed
to hasten darkness. to clip wings.
we jeer at the summer of our lush coins. we spend time
but gain none. and such is our abattoir.
our fatted calf, gasping in the gears of our industry -
choking on the floral arrangement
of our daffy deal.

all metaphors are five fingered. lesser hands are not god's.
joy stumbles in the ruin of our naked ambition -
as hell abides. we sum the minus signs and add zero.

at odds.