In spite and in fury
do men reveal themselves
in this tattered universe of things;
see, as the wren falls dead
from its frozen bough
see, a gypsy soul makes mock
of all the listless infirmities
of modernity,
sacrifices itself on slippery altar
of family;
the gypsy soul dies only the once
via no coward’s turnpike to (im)mortality
instead expect a death in flames,
with no upending of a trite discontent
happiness is rarely heaven-sent
and even more rarely deserved
we fling remnants of ourselves
out into this multi-verse of death
as inconsequential as the days that go by.
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