My fantasy role
is hitting big style.
The sum of our gold
ain't breaching the wilds
of gray waylaid by
daily single file
marching to graves.
We all seen them while
the fuse missed its mile.
A stare barely there
'til a screen can share

the 'moji we hardly can't be 'til the feed tells us how we breathe.
Let that sink to the drink of an epiphany bubbling
from a fermentation born of degradation, unnamed
and untried, but the masses don't deny
the sulfur inside 'til we all swear there's a yellow outline.

I'm cutting no rug
but crawlin' up glass.
Each rip makes a slit
for infection lasts
past ointments solvent
small pain. Summer drags
over blue skies flowing
and night's drowsy drug.