YOU’RE NOT READY FOR THE REAL THING

We’re apocalyptin’ here
when it’s more of an
apocalypsinc
Breath holding in the voice
with a soothsayer’s spite
You’re not ready for the real thing
hisses evolution
and in harmony pollution
Flip-sides are greener than
freshly groomed grass
I could iron all the ruffled
and neglected streets
with the irony of this inverted
loneliness
Where are all the words
when I need them?
Sole informants
on the mythic whereabouts
of infinity?
Never should it have achieved
this crescendo of diluted levity
Wake me when the reformatted
census ends

03 23 20

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