Clockweed

a record of circumstance a recipe for psychiatric suicide. a nameless purpose, curling within arbitrary seeking, lurks slightly above natural law, courting assault from falsehoods that exist, partially and in synergy with wrong turns and dead-ended promises. time powers hope, less long than ardent, trusting logic to heal fear. a rushed tribute ends without the expected cry of anger at onslaught. you should have stayed the long and known you could have pulled a honeybee by its tail, kissed nectar from its feet and enjoyed a spray of spoils instead of yielding to self-starvation instead of ducking the blow you allow it to be what it chooses.