Friday, March 7


Golden, he—not knowing is his cruelty,
For garden paths grow thistles ever thick.
And so, you see, his glorious effigy
Must give rise to inquiry romantic.
Certainly, he may forever lonesome be;
Yes, one can hopeless hope for jealous antics.
By decree, one’s whims engage in prophecy—
Fabricate lush fancies for the frantic.

Complicit in simplicity, his web elicits empathy,
Solicits the illicit with its sorcery.

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