Your words twist and shimmer so eloquently,
So ferociously, that I know you should be good,
But I don’t get you, you poem.
Others coo over your beauty and praise your form,
But I, quite frankly, cannot see your appeal.
You’re too bizarre and too complicated. You speak about
Destiny and truth as if they were tangible things, objects that babies
Teeth upon, parcels that people carry about under their armpits,
But they’re not. They’re greater than me, you, and anything you could
Ever
Compare them to.
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