A silent Pitchfork, a rubble outside
I am all that I have been, not so well connected
A galactic fusion over the rimmed walls
A paycheck for the month it’s all a plaything
Poetry calls me often in the darkest night
A knowing edge surpassed me
As I went down the rabbit hole
This is the age of new thought protestants
A summer binder over at my glass
I know that buttercup lifelong simulation
Poetic engulfment is rising the aura is new
Of subdivisions and postmodern pranks
The fun we had at the treehouse jingoism
The subversion is all around my wretched watch.

– Sayani Mukherjee