Somehow, I've managed to
bring out the self-righteous,
infantile rapscallion in
me, to float myself, flaming
and wingless, suspended over
a sea of piddling babbles
battling for attention in
a bowl of boiling pigs' blood,
sans galoshes. Apparently I
missed the memo. Somehow,
this will be another sleepless night
spent wandering through damn
doggerel, a labyrinth of il-
logic,
wondering how I ever got
in, knowing the only way out is in
sunlight, where I can finally follow
the billowing scent
of birch bark that leads
me to the heat if your crackling
quagmire of a heart
again.
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