The graveyard of our mystic task
with a vapid dream of scheming suns.
The ones we took for nourishment.
We flourish with fervor,
foaming at the mouth.
There’s a southbound train of thought
running ten minutes behind schedule.
When feathers fluster rhyme,
it’s time to muster up
the fortitude to stand.
Hand our axioms over.
Handsome, and bearing
a warning against tides.
The way the weather chides us,
it’s a wonder we haven’t caved.