YOU HEARD IT HERE LAST
The hunt was on for mitigating fictions
A curt enchantress the snow studied
Appeared willing and able to meditate on.
She burped into town, destined for greatness.
Witnesses were left to reflect back
On their own gazes, to take each other lying down,
Stripped of artifice on the course our blunders were par for.
Having sniffed out and conquered
Their biological imperatives, these figures of speech
Were never heard from again, though the memory of them does
Admit the dead light of gratitude that penetrates
To every smiling portrait’s quick dissolve.