a semblance of sobriety
Draw within stubmlingblocks of concord, it's all in shambles so far from my towers of ivy, ivory hilted cretins on by brow and I did it in this time. Thyme and basil on my wounds a greek tragedy and I'm at it's center, the Drama Queen in regal dress, and I shattered, now I throb in a different pace, heavy and hard, quickened to feversish smiting rampage. I built too much, too deep, too many layers
All it took was a glance to topple and it burst like sophic ripeness and now there's no turning back now there is no end now there is no finality, collapsed as by photodisintegration, endothermic--consuming--and ground to a finer dust than anyone can possibly imagine; a far cry from the cigarettes of accretion
No blame to pin but I'm sure it's my fault. Someone is pointing at me and the raspy voice of an ancient junkie echoes:
"Ah, Pook the Destroyer"
-- For K and Mr B