Raging bulls bickering about unfairness;

Blind men slaughtering raging bulls.

———————————————

Look, no one’s here to temper you.

What should be adult is adult;

What is burnt down is irredeemable.

Just look at The Bletchley Park—

Where spirits cascade down the beguiled spectrum of light,

Directly stabbing you in the eyes of the soul.

And no one’s here to judge you:

Running naked, we are of no difference.

You’re allowed to leave, but you’re not allowed to choose to leave.

Filling the comrade of leftover is where we end up,

Where we are valuable.

Tsunami of gourmet dishes are at the brink of leashing—

Under that unforgettable gaze, we are pushed and pushed forward to join the comrade.