A hundred folded bits of paper:
The origami of a life;
The feng shui decadence of
Bamboo in the eastern most corner
Of your youth;

Which was spent wasted;

Spitting venom
Like a honeybee in November;
Enraged at the prospect of winter

Mindless and bereft of nectar:

Love, sweet Love…

Relatively harmless yet pricking
Vicious, still, the sweetest
Unsuspecting victim;

Who, through happenstance,
Is shapeshifting through the cinematics
Of their own karmic backlash
At that very moment.

Sometimes you do it to be a bitch:

The product of a misplaced feather
Caught adrift on the breeze of
A cocaine adolescence
And alprazolam recuperation

To break you gently into adulthood.

Still, you are an infantile jester at heart,
Your aim to make a mockery of fate

And incite the ruse out of your muses.

A hundred folded bits of paper;
Nothing more than the tickertape parade
Of the nameless and the faceless.