Coriolis inertia.

Tourniquet burdened
with blood-laden
of fortune.

Controversial urchins
glittering aqua and purple
in the afterglow.

Stowaway rhetoric
delivered apropos, and
all I
see are cotton candy clouds on verdant horizons.

I’d close my eyelids, but
I don’t want to
miss a second
of the revery.

You’re everything
I let slip away
the last time around, and
I’ll be damned if I drown
without first seeing the submarine meridian dissipating into dialectic sublimity

with my own

Willie Watt


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