The future is an old rag worn by some hope
in its naked lessness.
I refuse to freeze in synopsis.
I must drink some sun and outgrow the habit of your dumping ground. It is a matter of preparing, now.
The future’s shoulders are burdened with expectations.
In the muttering of the temple bell’s tong tong I hear the deception with idols.
To re-register a little later would be a lessness of hope.
The past was enough futuristic
to rob the futured present of itself.
It is a matter of preparing, now.