good morning, all inundated

just a drop into a bucket worn thin.
no pasture holds a promise, never been;
only into darkness, never seen
and off into a wilderness of trees
stood tall and walking slowly toward the sun,
where nature leaves it wanting, needing none.

over cliffs whose edges warrant falling
down past cages caught like cattle, calling.
now voices up your arms (and into feeling)
mimic only what whispers find in whistles, singing.
and so it goes to show your language, laughing,
it only seems appropriate, you stuck or staffing.
as, soon, a slip of aged fruits along the collar
dripping past the rouge and unto faller, faltering.

and so we sing.
and so the bottles drink.
and so a symbol shrinks away,
lost in dogma’s dream.

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