My clasp slithers snake slippery and ghastly,
Hands holding, folding nothing so sheets remain creased
Like the grease which trusted your fall from solid grip
And a trip that busted your hip, hop and hot metal leaves u hanging
From the floor.
Trust me, it must be, must bust scenes
As effort and energy condense to trickery
And the walls of Niagara float harmless to the slope
But backwards soaked in gravitational pull, full throttle
With no message and no bottle.

We end to start again.
We begin to march again.
For what?
Nothing more to stand for,
Nothing new to harm-
I choose waterfall over scolded palm.

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