Scabbard syndrome succumbs
to sword species, scoured, rustless,
reverse-drawn to appear
the picture of dearth.
Language success? Trust?
Crusts of the dead hearth.
Embers gone ashen,
remembers crashed
onto rocks and clocks
and depleted stocks.
Equities, an unsafe ingestion,
indigestible, uncontestable,
clevering each delivery
in only twenty minutes.
Proof, social. That's a true
ism, crushed under a pile
of burning aluminum cans.
Sport? Politics? Business?
Sameness rules and normalcy
rants against the tower
that seeded every game.
Intense preferences. That's what
some once called values. And others
letter into culture. Better? Not
on another life, that is out
of reach, so this one had best
be as good as a second one
always used to appear.
Roman Ryan 