The thread is needed as its solitariness is needled the draft is hollowed
out in tiny stitches that govern as overlords mis-testify names and
perfunctorate obligations you sit out in the rain calling the fabric false.
II. Something in the eyes: Distraction
“You have misjudged me again,” she blushed, the hint of
her reason, the full force of unshackled irons shorn of last night
spoke again, and it landed solemn and impacted.
Creatures of mis-hope, slightly grovelled, no disrespect intended,
None taken, all tatters, shorn of plenitude and of either/or, no intention,
This is all? There is more, connected in open spaces with sewers overflowing.
Blistered joy or just more mis-hope? Little boy, little girl, the adjectives train
Themselves to the flow of sewage, and the little is no more.
Armies of somnambulists capitulate precociously wavering in perambulated
dichotomies that prophesy untimely direness at a time when the tick tock of
peace moves would fall off the busy and scheduled floor, arming the lost time-
keepers with a wish to knock off next time they get together to shoot the breeze.
V. This time with bluster: Clarity
“Again, this is is wrong,” he roared, with a certitude that fell flat on the less than
captivated minds that paid servile heed. His crisp deliverance masked his absolute
lack of knowing anything at all.
The vapid trench is reminder enough for the sore hollowness that fills it. But is it
deep enough to remind the dark stench from forgetting? Is it still enough to
keep the hoarseness from getting in the way of trinkets and worthless gems?