Counted cultures are aware,
and you can see through fabric’s
clear-cut mischief.

A sheer
sure fire way
to entertain
my discombobulated
bobble head.

Are we awake,
am I awake?
I pray for our
sainthood to be enough to save us
from this steeping sin.
We’re steeped within.

As tea,
boiled
and brewed
no cancer-
causing agents,
only mere vacancies of wisdom and understanding.
Where hearts pour out.

You’ve held onto this paper,
for so many years,
even though it’s only electronic.

The first spark of our reignition,
our new religion,
a recognition
of Plato’s cave’s condensation.

No more muses.

No more
cheap thrills.

Steeped in the firmament of Heaven,
let my gaze
be to thee,
if only as a cerebral hemorrhage.

And our child walks alone,
in the midst of dragons,
as in the bog of eternal stench;
kumbayah.

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