twilight succor of hens naked in the lies of poets

leave the deeper thoughts for the stoned poets listening to the rain hit the window washing the grime from world to leave it still somewhat filthy if not worse for wear as the cold bones of winter settles ladylike upon the earth

let those bleary eyed fools suss out the true meaning of love or life or art or any of a million other questions that never needed positing in the first place only for the elitist bastards to wax on and on about impracticalities

who cares why the sun rises to reflect the lost spaces between in her gaze when there are fingers to be worked to the bone or dreams to be stubbed out in the ashtray of lonely hearted madmen with more quill than common sense

just leave the philosophies to those in which the deeper meanings do not apply as they scribble odes to why the heron flies or the way her smile encompasses the universe in the soft angle of her perfection

that way it doesn’t matter if it makes sense, they can claim artistic license and smoke opium as the hens cluck outside in twilight succor beneath the absence of light inherent in the sky as seen without your kisses

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