We've reached a checkpoint.

All of the time spent configuring
to your Island rules, and standards,
is now respectfully due;
up for inspection, conflagration.

Replay my compulsion to
pelt you with my good graces, packed
thick, and intravenously, with an
interest calculated to shoulder
the circumfrence of an empty,
put-upon moon.

Burn – You leave behind
heated lacerations when you snap your
jaws around my meticulous
misgivings. Mistakes. Pieces of my
teeth decorate your lunar tendencies.

I've led myself down the forest path
of savory roses and singed blue fireflies.
I pocket sprigs of rosemary in a futile
manner. They rot too quickly to be of
any use to my future, but this is
another fatidic chance to keenly refine
my perception of waning prosperity.

Burn.

I give you stolen crystals and you give me glass.