Your speech is confusing,

bemused tongue-lashing where we thrash

and capsize. I’m a buoy in the sea

that throbs: black, red and grey.

Words thrown, by a man, overgrown,

who strokes time, golden and fluid,

thunders like knives; unknown, unwise.

We nod to the thrum of progress,

shunting to paradise,

our tongues static as time.



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