Lines of Sight

Those are shapes that carry your worth

that revere you with design

and yet

so many, in their haste,

scuttle to impure qualia in ignorance

and crash and burn in passion

for unattainble works of art

Ripe, moist, rupturing pieces

of art

all of you, each

make demands on such pains

But I am a swift taster, I climax promptly

and immediately spit you out in ennui

If only I had the brush to draw you

where I could taste you with clenched fists

and bid you adieu,

mollified by transient ecstasy.


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