Wayward,
and left to your own
excitement,
where is the line?
Hail the quiet hum,
the static,
the indeterminate.
Liquor bottle legacies
cleverly disguising
unmoored mania.
Tapping fingers,
shifting toes,
the (fault)lines are festering,
churning out putrid waste
on collision.
Note the green tint.
How far is the deepest?
That's the trouble:
if you don't find it,
you have to keep it.
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