A Weeders Lament

They say the path to Hell is gold
And lined with Good Intentions;
But all I see are furtive glints
through rafts of vile Arthraxon.

Ode to a Poorly Resolved 16S Tree

Ode to a Poorly Resolved 16S Tree...

word to my Pollies and their perfect OGs

with the ATG and a lolly lolly C

show me, ma polytomy homey

fo I bus out my nine and flatten yo tree

clothed

the cold morning rain soaks my coat,
stiffening my shoulders, the added weight
and scent of poorly aged sadness,
rising unbidden from the fabric
like the mustiness of a long winter's demise.

old clothes are often old friends,
molding over the years to a comfortable shape.
or perhaps, its me and not them,
with slow alteration
subtly conforming to my unyielding costume.

who does the change, and who the changing?
does it matter? do they care?
a lifetime of imperceptible shifting
driven by cold drops of rain.