the uncHosen

[milo]

the uncHosen

we exist as a wisp and only a wisp
of that saddle-sweet fragrance
that sours on the lips
as time tumbles onward

a pitiful fawn toward
pathetic weak songbird
a long weird alongward

only to balance on the keel
of your breastbone
like a mercantile ship
on the breast of a wave

i have fallen
have fallen
away and away

a drone is a bee that exists for a day
as a  purpose - a race that he's destined to lose
and all of his breath

and all of his breadth
and all of his brethren
are  hinged on this moment - so choose

who are the subterranean dwellers
that live for the sellers
of cheap-easy unguents

in matronly cellars
with their red-pill cast faces
at their underclass paces
and underkempt places

oh, how you wrinkle  your nose
in your Vanity Faire clothes
and your face fairly frozen

and your Tinkerbell voice
swing the mallet of choice
make your choice
make your choice
and cast out
and caste down
and cast off
the unchosen