The drips are at it again.
Only moments ago,
a maniacal sun sneering,
you gulped the milk of your mistakes
not without hesitancy.
My two cents left a sour aftertaste.
Fret not, because from here,
it only escalates.
Disorganized particles reaffirm
my commitment to chance meandering.
This bulky blacklit swamp has no goal anyway.
Let’s go ahead and bray
at the half-baked dimestore militia
arousing suspicion in the corner.
Good things come to those
who bring the ruckus, after all.