A Cascading Guinness Does Not Understand A Pimento

... My favorite words will vanish,

      My everyday pants will dissolve into dust,

        We will forget the esoteric mystery of fitted sheet origami - 

  Four unidentifiable birds perched on a bare, distant, undulating branch,

    One left, and none of them were concerned with the intricate rituals of origami.

    I can not recall the moment I left the branch,

      It may have swayed elegantly from the release,

         I may have exalted in flight,

             Perhaps, I remain frozen in fear - 

                A confusion of wings and schematic diagrams with no destination.

             Nor can I remember

               The moment I was born,

                  But I can recollect the times I welcomed death 

                Always perpendicular,

                  Seldom obtuse,

                    Acuity only the remainder of a fraction,

                       Never parallel,

                          Waiting for a fractal which promised purpose

                             Elation - 

                                Wandering between the grind and the sublime.

 

                  Or the grime and the lime, 

                     The totalitarianism of sourness,

                         Boots a week out of the box

                            With absolutely no hope of freshness

                                Sequestered  to an area of confinement.

  

    But I meant spectrally

       Not structurally 

          As in a spectral 

              Occurrance

         The silver of water

            The dark shapes of Yew

               The altitudes of crucifixtion

                 Smaller than their tallest jockey

                    The great primordial soup

                        Orpheus

                            The wandering albatross

                         Have all been emptied,

                           Their spirits surrendered

                                Remaining, only an image 

                                   Of the great philosophers stone,

                                       An absurdity escalating into obscene proportions

               

                        The ink forgot what viscosity promised,

                            The sharpener departed on walk about

                                The muse was not

                                   Amused...

Author's Note

Slay me again