by on October 29, 2020 :: 0 comments

Ingots of ideation evolve.
I sidestep
from the unfoldment:
abide by the strokes cinched for me.
It is thick and turbid. While
conversing, one spots the other is misstating.
There is no evidence, no admission.
As the words crowd it is clear-cut.

Grief lays bare their self-centeredness.
Biases in breath flash their fig.
Solo in righteousness, sometimes
activates the upper story
to doubt itself.
Hurrah from the herd
props the purpose.
At some stage it chimes with the core.

editors note:

Sometimes you make your point; sometimes the point makes you. – mh clay

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