The problem is that things just aren’t
rational. Words become less real
the longer time drags on. The long
day and night cycle is looser

at every moment. Ignoring
the background static the trolls, death
the concept of evil and more,
Love came at me across the nine

heavens. A miracle, fashioned
just for me. A real perfection,
numbers, herald of the motion
of the heavenly spheres, said no

one, ever. The chaste vibrations
of the universe continue
to deny allegations of
insidious intent. Mostly

by refusing to comment more
even when pressed up against by
hordes of fallen angels. Never
mind – this sorrow produces verse,

laments, the pulp fiction of our
human poetic sphere. Pain just
whips across the page. Give me more!
It’s what sells, darling, it’s what sells!