the bonds of likely regression

strike up their matches

and judge my area code.

but i’m right there,

the biggest stone,

and rolling out.

 

no, wait. still beholden to accuracy:

i ain't even 2 pebbles on a crutch.

i've been blown through this nickel birdcage.

 

your up-cycled glances in the cut.

you witness my vault,

festooned with useless decadence.

 

the traits of night, famous in death,

rumble the Ronin's sabers. what’s really out there in the darkness?? 

 

peaks, streaked with dips: the modern architecture of a crumpled wrapper.

 

when i visit the beverage,

partial to disturbance,

partly i observe this.

i then bereft of all creation mists,

imperfectly blazing trails,

and pending a keepsake of prehistory.

 

the luck of order,

a whomsoever problem.

you luscious eyewitness.

you sicced lament on the hobknobs,

came correct, and muffled their sex whistles.