Secateurs

The glass-fed stampede, how it stains a

Whitened mind. Opinions friction past,

Fracturing every bolstered sleep. Disinfect

With lemons; spare not the rind. The

Evergreen spores return with crampons

To creep. Moulting tendrils, honey-suckled

Hold, pulls you into pew. Accordion begging,

How they take your final cent. Acidic hands,

Syringing displeasure in full view. You

Return to your tabernacle; they’re

Squatting in your tent.