Gone was the narrative nomenclature that bound a habit
to a monkish nature, so called to persuade the wearer
that the decision was made long ago, far from here,
for reasons that you wouldn't understand, you see,
And therefore have faith in your masc, you line up
your toes with the edge and jump broad, over the
failures that were examined, rejected, by the people
who reviewed your work; each of the parts, 'ticipated
years in regress, advance on your future or it will
retract what you were at the apex of your storified
fleabag monument to all that was wrong with naught
that you thought, uncorrected, green and red and blue
ink, but don't forget that other one that only shows up
on dark paper, that you'll deny, as I was taught to,
but that doesn't mean you can't get it done! All of it!
And relax, exclaimor less, for your misspelled timbre
will fall on your ruses like a fallacious god complex.
Roman Ryan 