Each banner waves for a bit,
frays to pits. The peach inside
won't abide an overripe under
eaten hide. This seed wants to
breed upon a dirtier inside, a
muck, wetting and drying,
retrying and undying, like
the fissile waves of the sun's
closer shaves, releasing hairs
into the empty airs whose
transit brings radiation in
contact with concentric
accommodation. Thank
you, is what I mean, for
sparkling living mites into
future peachy bites. It's more
than my nonexistence could
have asked for. And in that
case, let's have more
children.
Roman Ryan 