the avalanche is not one to plant its feet with steady rhythm. architecture isn’t ready until it acts dismissive.
bombs may be as organic as a thicket. i’m neither a picnic spread nor your calisthenics.
i’ve never considered space important enough to chase. i assumed our formulaic archetypes could sway.
how is there a template to identify mistakes when the error made, ironically, is flawless tirades.
underneath sophistication rests a blueprint for why i choose to stand my ground beside tulips.
volunteer to save myself. i can be your ruins. we can see the stain of health bleached in disillusion.
i clean my bunker while i let my room suffer. mold sticks to tiles while i coddle comfort.
wishing to be different is sailing without a rudder. going against the winds of rough terrain is sand for supper.
– D K T
