Rage. Posted for posture.
Pages roasted and costed,
bested by mastheads, scroll
tolls charged twice, front
and back worded, fine
wooded, re-gooded,
mud bathing scathing
hills, braising shills,
breaking down networks
into televisions and
screeds. Not sage, time
and its rosy toasts to
its great friend space,
relative to vacuums
and dusted speed. One
unit over another. Be
sure, certainly. Be in
the lee of the wind, by
any means, please the
ding, ring the hells across
the halls and pull purgatory
out from another denial.
Predictors! Invictors!
Jealous victors. A nearby
table, fabled under the
ground, so much further
than six feet so as to give
analysis to chalices filled
with this minute's hour-
long tirade that lengthens
lives into breathless,
deathless teeth.
Roman Ryan 