Is it my intention to claw my way through the erratic
gel of atmosperic confusion that is, was, or might be.
To bend the moments to my derisional scope of non equitable conclusions,
wrestling the sea monsters of Odysseus’s peril. Who thought this mayhem?
Not the starlet winging high, the possum’s tail wrapped to the branch.
The litany of obtuse contriving conjectures can overwhelm the obvious
visitation that I am only granted per chance by an unknown pretense.
To be active requires no travel in the auto bureaucracy of self serving
indulgences of whims and wishes. Quietly tackle the ghost. That’s my requiem of timidity.- Sinz