A Deconstruction
A Deconstruction
I speak of nothing but
destruction
Buttered prose; a mere
distraction
Recited when the flux lines
froze
Resolved, I became a fraction
Convergent series; no inflection
Crossed divisors as I pleased
I would grasp imagination
With fingertips; resignation
Not once would cross my mind
Was each word a permutation?
Mere chance; a fluctuation
In the cosmos more than once
Like signs they go in one
direction
Number lines; clear infractions
They will reach and go no more
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