It’s Just Now 2:11
6425 Poem
The kitten fights a complementary Christmas color rope reeking of packaged incense adorned with fallen Rudraksha. Taking a break placing a brake on cyclic vertical sport.
Left sleeping on a pillow while a box of memory spins in jewel casings sold for pennies at four way stop signs aka reconnaissance of hell.
Hand printed Baroque born prints fill a page occupying a wall called home rather a house in actuality a place that has transcended into a home at last.
A sarcophagus of anguish washes through at a spam call ordering the death of god from fake annoymity on the end of an idiot cube.
Ready for sleep by midafternoon