this is a ticking time-bomb
and it isn't over yet
(oh, as if you couldn't see);
it's like honey on a wound
and the flies are on the waltz,
Matilda's count: 1 - 2 - 3...
not all of this is nonsense,
for our games are never just;
the consequence is faery
as we settle with the dust.

with my metrical aplomb
(which few may right interpret)
and most verbose derring-do,
I have found myself marooned
by Freudian-slipping faults
and ever wondering who
here is better off; defense
offers such plaintive trials
while aggression may outdo
reason and use of wiles,

effecting in us the zomb-
ie-esque desire to whet
our carnal appetites;
to whose blood are we attuned,
whose sole voice is it that halts
our plummets from such great heights?
we rail against the silence
when our own authority
is subverted by chance plights
and lacks due priority...

TMK 22oct2008