From an evening,
woven
through thick and thin,
trodden
with time,
forgotten.

Ha, but who remembers? Who bets on such a past for a future? Who is that loser?

--

Who wants to be like those poets who write silly stuff like the stuff above and bear the smile of a wise, senseofhumoured man when they say it was the stole they use each winter or some such entity they were referring to.

Well, you don't have to raise your hand.

Bred from flesh, and incepted orientations, your love is far away.
Dying its death, spinning a web, it's a catch away.

What, then, holds your mast?
Who, then, is your steward,
chief mate and boatswain?
Do you need the fishing net, or
do you need an anchor for rest?

Like two people standing back-to-back on the proscenium stage trying to break the fourth wall.

Beating around the bush

May be I like the Nazis,
and not the jews.

When you work, whyinthename, is it that you get stuck with a culture.

Will aymaR last it out?