Empty our definitions of ignorance.
My horoscope paints a wretched fortitude.
The liar in a field of lepers,
The hound of a parliamentary.
I face a faceless evil,
Lathered muck coats the laughable sadist.
What justifies his poisonous stupor?
His porous odor?
A pontiferous codification?
Organic waves a salutation.
The factory pursues her coitus.
Open conversions of the Nihilists,
The betterment forms an empty knowledge.
Personages filter my delicate dreaming.
A fragile transit unordered,
Under cardboard and excrement,
My eyes ferociously scan for fantastical obsolescence.
A functional lawman suffocates in stationary.
Mindful teething of Californian cattle,
Candlelit by distant obelisks.
An empty ocean poses comatose.
A steward stole my reclamation.
Louder I bellowed a restitution for stagnation.
Emptiness occupies my condolences,
Feeling what minds allow us.
Venerable is our Creator,
But whom do I revere?
Losing is a tariff on our innocence.
Winning is a tariff on our innocence.
Living is a tariff on our innocence.
Empty are definitions of our innocence.
Empty is our definition.
— Kevin J. Flors
Thanks for reading
Photograph from Pexels
Plate of Soup 