there is a mood
swelling upon my tongue
an anticipation
a lingering fruition perhaps

i know not
yet it tastes like
a fresh beginning

the rattling pulse
cascading senseless scents
into sensory overload

i despise it
nascent hope blossoming
in peculiar strands
i cannot decipher

reabused anew
of the nonsensical notions
of momentary notoriety

recycling unused refuse
while refusing to reuse
the intangible taboos
we hold to be self true

i am an iliterate alliterative
iteration of revisionist objectivities
filed decades after the bodies finally fell