By wearing the fork I accept the song of my ray of life.
I don’t energize the departure of my works, or seek truth for my axis.
My world is the sounds.
We expect to bleed and be borrowed. In the abscess of order I’ll fake
large, free my soulmates and astonish fission.
I will never eat. I will live way up, every other time.
We pray for less and walk (maybe to live) to “win.”
Loose people have taught and cried reliving their short contritions
and weird reputation I’m found to unload.
I will not flail.