Our soul’s privately, spinelessly spun self-examination,
a dulled collective, selective, set orientation,
is performed in high metaphor,
with sense of eccentric discrimination.
Copulation’s devolved in a pool above ground
once closed by late autumn, now open year-round.
In a gated community,
forced, relocated unity
with oceans in view across fires of mass mutiny.
As the deep end is crossed,
when all investment’s lost,
we’ll continue to accrue countless insurance costs.
Vanilla conquests climax, baptism’s prism of restriction;
the prophecies we penned from wholly historical fiction.