Formed – A Poem

Love is an abstract (obvious

in a mundane way) and there

can’t be any form or reason to a

chemical reaction inside a gland

stuck inside a bone prison

wallowing in a vat of lies, half-truths,

delusions, and dreams:

All abstracts given form

function

purpose

precision

by a meat suit hurtling toward

the abyss at the speed of time.

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