Spritz Factory

Tilt, miller, your grain is against itself.
Sandpaper was your friend until it got through
the seventh layer of your skin.

Softness, the goal. Missionlessness, a vision.
Strict corporate articles require suppliant 
board members.

That's an addiction machine, nut shells 
lying across the workroom floor.
Cracked, not ready to shatter.

No support requirements, merely
an ounce of faith and that unwillingness
to swing a barbell bat.

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