Through fipple of my heart I wish to
infiltrate your ossicles. Is exaptation
mocking at or maturation of our chime?
In wilderness of words I’ve lost you to
lanes I’ve no access to. I will engage
with myself fluent in the feeling your
residue is blended in my being. You’re
combating your own blitzkrieg. In that
Armageddon my weaponry will not work.