He scrunches up his face;
A bravura of sheer irksomeness.
Fruitless tries of wild fathom.

His act halts his face facing mine;
dawning of endless gaze.
After a splendid array of irritability all that his partings exit is a set sound of,
Tch.

Upon my grave I swear such words.
Not be repeated by men or birds.
By kith or kin.
No mortal sin.
As scabies creeping 'neath itching skin.
Irksomeness and irritation.
Drums be banged in expectation.
May the flowers be bought forth.
So buzzing bees get fed and pollen spread.
The coming.
The going.
All mortals knowing.
Perplexed by the way the world is going.
Purple haze of flower beds.
Man and his minions are losing their heads.
Heralding a missing future.
Of dog show trophies made of pewter.
Bent out of shape.
Somewhat distorted.
Free flying world of buds and bees.
(c)LIVVI