The prospective rot of thunder rippling loose-leaf on the binder,
slave-state mindsets writhing like razors through the mind
while tilling fields of flurry until
snowfall equals bleeding and bleeping
equals rhythm on this decaying ballroom floor.
Interiors; what's more?
The socialist prospective of rippling with the fury of
ants in steel jackets, biting and buzzing
biting and buzzing,
never walking away from the playground turmoil that haunts
like teeth cast from the crudest iron
to ever drill a vacuum in the soul.

Lost; wondering where the stars go
when they, too, want to wish,
imploding inside.

I am my own color of casket,
my own Crayola shovel
digging without controlled forms of labor in the loss.
I am my own analog worm
invited to this digital eulogy.