eeny meeny miney moe

who is this, that we see?

our dreams tread, mercilessly, upon the shadows

whose faults we have seen, not,

and the grungy sidewalks, their velour faith

escaping the dentures of the creases in our foreheads.

and reticence, jettisons, manifestation

of all the lexicons irregardless in their manner;

a conduct, deportation,

so what of it?

if it be the paroxysm that fill the lungs,

there is every right in the soul to seek out its sword.