She sets out.
Like Wordsworth.
On foot.
A nightmare of rainstorms.
Not yet officially her highness.
Her boot laces.
Her camisoles.
Frothing abnormally.
(As due the polis.)
She bites down.
Her panopticons' absurd opus
of nerve-ends unmeted at dusk.
(Still frothing.)
Her millionth pixelated ward of force.
Interfaced upon hilltop & dale.
She objectifies tithes beyond need.
For incident.
Or consequence.
Frenzied to inquire--
If gold is purpose without form...
If language is golden as it's writ...
Am I not yet her higness
wary of exordium?
If language is golden as it's writ...
Beautifully written, Raymond.
I wasn't sure if "language is golden as it's writ"
was a good way to end.
But feel better now about it.
Love yr stuff too.
It's always a joy to read.
& inspiring language.
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