Sublimation

Nurture stem to system,
brushing bushy branches.
Pruning. Embracing.

Permeating patterns converging
routines of complacent numbings,
culturing default illusions,
inside a furling banality.

Grid-locked, and won’t stop.
Senses are greedy, but coherent.
Obliterate the axe, with the stem,
feel it burn, the tree of Man.

Drop the pieces. All you’ve got.
They’re not all you’ve got.
Light up past volatility.
Sublimation.

 

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