The meta vote ~ Ren
As every politician says: follow my shadow!
not the future of my black on flesh decay
that has less charm than a firefly burped by the cosmos
into a nice tight morning suit
that cannot hold the hologram,
Since even the dogs now laugh in circular barks
these raw drinks of rough sewage upon throats
that bring the stars into question, and dance
with each one beyond a new city made of flux
under the chatter of the mardi gras march,
Then beyond the piers where rants become suns
the heavens of bone become the grace we forget
whether we drank too much, worked too much, or
just forget that all animals are hybrid in the march;
unless a mating call shatters the grey.