our stories rush towards truth
details sharpened into mouthfeel
violence ritualized as cadence

ancient patterns worn thin like contempt
or: how we are all subject to trafficked ideas
still   —   even skies can break down, softly

our distance to attention is a deceptive magic
you learn clarity prefers to love with purpose
this seduction a result of (re)producing evocations

curation guards to protect what others bury
a claim to territory disassociated and devoured
persuasion is found wedged within such righteous exclamations

our daily interruptions have turned personal
yes, it is profitable to reproduce moods
softly familiar to the saturation point of haunting