Is there a death we celebrate more extravagantly than the passing of a devious thought?
Could It’s eyes have plead more deeply? Could It’s lips have been drier? Could It’s smile have been more profound?
Can any presence be forgotten so kindly, so weak an image that it is drawn out of our minds by a straw through the ear?
Echoing, sinuous, beckoning
We sip It’s wine so delicately. We cannot risk breaking It’s carefully constructed barrier to allow the flow to flood the flat, fallow surface we try so persistently to expel
I wish I could see their faces when I arrive with chisel in hand and a demented grin, the pinnacle of my expression