FORCE-THE-EDGES

(Starring Fate as the separation goddess)

The more it happens, no?
(How much time do you spend each day?)
When a flick of the wrist has failed,
End up dissolving and leaving empty space in your memory.
Motion is a slight of hand motif,
Characterized by attributes,
Described as having features.
It is the undone whistle-flute.
For all the deadpan in the room, we certainly have numbers.
An upkeep is someone who ties knots and sells them as decorative bungalows.
Winter in a polish satchel.
Don’t break that vile,
Unless you’re smiling rabies,
The sheep stick is useless.
It’s cutting another album in the sewer.
There is why it lives here.
Hoping to be blotted out.
Struggling for anonymous rhythm,
But not enough shapes,
To begin.