The cosmic chamber pot has cracked
as decreed by the winter leaves.
Shallow salamanders pace the track
under squirrel-haunted eaves.
‘It's a subtle cancer,’ he said,
his miser’s smile a golden spike,
‘that changes water into bread.’
I'm still here. It's just been a hectic couple of weeks. Slightly busier evenings, much busier days. Above, you see the border-line nonsense that has been in progress for over the past week.
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