today, the world is drowning in the irony of a shadow. for certainly the brighter i insist i am, the darker, the longer my shadow grows, and when i am a december night, cold, dry, and gray, my shadow stays faint and close. then there is harmony. no more ying and yang, a balance of good and evil, right and wrong, a divide between the quixotic reveries of mice and men, no. there in the absence of light pupils dilate and you become awake... curiously, vigilant. "company and grief sit like a doc leaf sits beside a stinging netal". it is the irony of a shadow, the wretched faithful black eyed dog, so servile, so spiteful, so sly. today the world is drowning in the justice of the poet. their agile and adroit fountain pen fingertips paint frames over everything. such clever prose. like:

the word ubiquitous.
it is indigo.
and fluid and flowing and chilling all at once, falling away.
distant.
reposed.
ubiquitous like a rose.


i think it spills from the tongue too nicely. they invent, invent, invent! always crafting emblematic devices, that make recantations and observations intricate, elegant, works of art. damn things indigo. damn things fluid and flowing. damn irony, cliche and certainly damn ubiquitous. there is a proper poem. live. life. still fates both dark and light, far and near, are spliced uncompromisingly together. irony. yes. today, the world is drowning in the comedy of the game. a most dangerous game. there is night then day and longer gray. binocular vision is piquant. what is down is up. antipodal existence. it makes sense. chemicals received. okay. metaphorical stages of locomotion. ah the birth of an idea. the ink for a pen. how the absence of nothing and something are the same. ubiquitous, ha! indeed. it is intoxicating. it is a joke, a daedalic composition of potential. it is an orderly mess. an awful awful fiasco. it is a masterpiece. what a gift.