Slow, slowly, time is treacle and tree sap,
We the waspish, faint breaths twitching
Briefly before our reabsorption,
Our intermingling amongst sheafs and sheets,
Wrestling with thoughts of hollows and privates.
Feed fires with chrysalides,
Cannabalistic pupae run rampant
Through spiderwebs of concrete and ruin
To build the biggest pyre
That they might be remembered briefly
And have their shadows stained
Onto the earth.
By Youthful Paraphernalia