Don’t Call the Sunset Beautiful

Happy phrases rise up tight throats
To make a scene conform to type

Letter boxing bruises fist egos
And calls a glade a blade

Parades are artificial arcs
Sloppily foot-drawn

Magic moments wait on none
While all refuse the call
It's a sin to say a sentence
Sentience and all

Walk along with Zennish masters
Deny the urge to speak
Category crimped collation
Havoc soundly wreaked

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