out-tough it, direct dozens
of fiery narratives, last poetic
pundit– syllabic pugilism, after
today, new truth has risen.. directly
confront the circumstances given– characters
like me slows nary, and no woe, up turbulent
rivers in the most inclement
I row.. your octave is elementary at best–
Work harder than me? How’s that possible
when you’re always grieving about lack
of rest? You’re map’s a mess, I’m in a box-like trot
of redesign, betterment for eversent. Journal entries
inventory the dents. Escape with my again-polished
slate. Review certain dates, re-plate. Walk past the cake.
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