a poem is but
a restive cluster
grasping
onto pages
with our frantic
fears conspicuously
calling out
for rescue
meticulously poring through
decrepit thoughts
of hoarded visions
kiss to tryst
to triste
in a blissful
dissolution
before sediment
comes nigh
where sighs undress
our destitute descries
calculated coalescence
pandering our pride’s
priviest imprints
curling chips of paint
exposing throes
of yesterdays
sacred cruxes
born before
our burgeoning bereavement
from whence all
embarking destined
for a distant hearken
poised to be
impartially presented
in pretentiously penned
appropriations
parsed
to pierce our peers
appetition
to sate this
untold inquisition
Max, or Not 