Where have the fates found us?
Where have the winds blown us?
What started as explosive ecstasy
Ended in icy-hard, frigid doom.
The pisser is not what is found
But what has been tragically lost.
Frail are the fingers of passionate love
Gripping tight to what was...nevermore.
Lizards celebrate the great poet
Who rocks the world like an orgasm
Erupting in a climax for the ages,
Then vanishing like all wild lovers do.
Yet the spiders and parasitic bugs
Are ignorant to the fantastic plot,
A turn not unlike the creepers they are.
Willful slaves are the downfall of freedom.