The errant symbol of a dead fish scaring the lesser minds of peanut-brained minstrels,
Perches upon a black flag, a deathwish, don’t you wonder what flying it instills?
Not fear, not dread, a loaf of bread curdles forming the girdle for a sword,
Sheathed in dying nutrients the sword understands its purpose, it sought the gourd.
Within the gourd was a child that went wild that was styled by the fairies,
In a mirror it looked clearer and came nearer to feel her where she was buried.
Within her was a seed, not a child, but a tree waiting to be, waiting to be,
You see the plant was much like an ant, not that it could, but that it can’t see.
Not like an ant at all, more like a tire, wearing a wire, trying to inspire liars,
To speak the truth to say to the youth, “We’re not special, not anymore suppliers.”
Aren’t the children Gods?
Aren’t the ants foundations?
Aren’t the plants creations?
Aren’t swords belly-fulls?
Aren’t dead fish useless?
All can be used for farming in some way or another.
So if you’re an ant farmer with a sword in a fruit on your waist, flying a flag with a dead fish, while scaling the tree that is your ship won’t you read this and think… wow… and melt inside knowing that damn, this guy, this guy, this guy really gets me… Because nothing else ever made less sense, just as I do. Isn’t that why I have been living for a deathwish?