I suppose everything is for the best
the trace is breached as it should
gravity dictates with a wooden pointer and dross plans to wreak havoc halt sweep
just to prove a point.
More and more
alliances are made by moribund leaves and to this end
the cycle goes on to chuckle
it will come round a wrong bend
again and again.
Because who is to say what is right
only those who wear crowns
appetency for interlaced thorns
just waiting for the intrigue
of conjured storms.
There is no “I” in the wind and
the gusty breaths make no oaths to
keep rain running sideways
no matter what trivia answer it
could deliver there is no winner here
just corners and traffic jams of
society run off
blossoming femininity before the
brain makes with the common sense
the refuse barely built and partially collapsed
or be gone.