Strapped in true black Aeron chairs
We mock our existence
Pooled in manicured rage
At life’s programmed prospectus
Swallow us under, rumbling in the undertow
Perhaps a Sprite! Spit one out high!
Afloat on the flotsam, away from the moon,
Towards
The scraped face reality of love.
Driven noisy into darkness
Ascend, scorching shrieking upward towards
Perch
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