Taking turns at naps,
we planned the other's unravelings,
brushing off our dusty paths
and mapping fantastic tongue babbling.
The fox, tricked, reveals the trap.
Gory, plastic ideations
of the suicide-ridden society
left all of our creations
longing for soberness. Eh, sobriety...
Though pious, the hunter waits with patience.
Caged, the poet caves idly.
Heavy, his chest quivers with anxiety.
What hath his mind's eye seen,
his brain's very own unbridling?
All the while, the Creator laughs, mad, wildly.
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