Illogical.
I am the latest of your typical tantrums
And the dish on how you saucily twist of the turnstile
The cringe on the credible fringe of your latest revenge
My willpower ceases and desists
And I consist of two palmed handfuls of beautiful balm
And the spilt on which you are shamelessly embalmed
I am the entrée’s hidden gristle and the gist of all that is worthwhile
The firecracker that leaves your intention singed
Disintegrated and finely milled; fragmented
Into tiny bits of foolishness that floats on the surface
Of my deceptively dead calm
Copyright ©2010 by j. k. Bradford, All Rights Reserved
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