Plotting your next certain smashing defense,
of course independent of the reckoning,
because you need to invest all in another plane.
Even though talk is decidedly cheap,
you are eventually going to pay heavily,
risking all by choosing the worst path of three.
See this crucial hour wasted,
vacant energy from flawed remnants.
Flagging an awakening carried further,
you just can’t stop this knowledge.
Little hands slap your glazed face,
these pranks have led to progress.
Reciting from memory of a fool’s memoirs,
seen only now as a transparent diversion,
this slick arch is now centered on downward.
Hopped-up on murky vials of bravado and posturing,
searching throughout the perturbed laboratory,
your prescription is running out.
Revolving partners busily drafting,
desperate plans in a famine.
They can’t relax in interaction,
so their samples are unresponsive.
The swindled finally feel robbed,
reaching now for different games.
Papers blowing away, it isn’t any longer your fault,
and the faithful won’t work either,
chained helpless in the burning building.
Your collaborators’ scenes wildly deviate,
still fatally touched by your sticky fingers,
all immersed in this same poisoning.
Sharwrong's Song 