commuting joy as easily
into depression as eruptive lusts.
While
outwardly exhibiting a show
of
comme il faut and should’s and must’s, it secretly entrusts itself to nothing –
as
the stuffing of the life it putatively
seeks
to spice and mold disperses in the breeze like droplets
in
a bad cold’s sneeze. It conjures
easy
rhymes like these to cover virulence – cheap handkerchiefs
all
full of holes. It has no goals.
And
yet the delicacy it can lend a face transgresses into grace.
.
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