There is a year with progress

and it faints along the narrow passages

struck forth along the ebb and flow of satient cosmos

latent in the lack of streaming

little knows the flock of dreaming

certain certainty is never key

and listening vastly improves the locks.



“verily, thou hast felt it”

will never allow respite



as the secrets you pass

under tow of laugh

best left created, nothing  more




Fuck as if you find the hour vague

enter misanthropic stylizations

asking for more than a mention

or a view


Die,   the same year you were born

such as is, nothing else

could shed the anxious tendencies

of a salted cup of water

“Nay”, instead, sugar
Who makes mistakes anymore?


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