The complicated nature of life
is its death: it’s what makes us all cry and de-
spies so our truths.
And whilst sophisticated machinery does make an infirmary
of all the institutions that ever
did aim to claim
a preponderance of
goodwill, such right ways, do propers, and fine says as they may
and they might, as they
ought and they
in actuality the
wounded walking have paid the deathly price
of the tricycles of the
children we all once used to be: riding unfound, and
to run free:
a teetering movement towards
a hollow reality.
And so in the end,
the depths we do dive produce the bends of
And thus no resolution will ever be uncovered.
In life, its own death:
in life, nothing