It is tempting to be partial to a wicked nation,
elated as a worshiper of tilted things.
I cover up the margins with a splendid partner
who aches for glinted wings.
Forever tossing between
lightness and weight,
plunged through painted waterfalls,
my armor slips off my body
and I am prodded.
I am stuck.

So, naturally my wandered spirit
lifts into a cloud
and never spoke and never pleased
the angels,
who drift an piousness.
Their greed is just a mailbox, emptied
long and trailed by kings.
Their portioned rights succeed
And I’ll have a bash.

Slogs of stymied dragon’s eggs
slip silently by slogged sandwiches
bogged down in half.
One for you one for me.