Like the Blob . . .
. . . it looks to cover the planet,
penning every heart to read
or lose to rain+, uncaring.
This place of bloggetry,
next stage of poetry which
dried up in dust of culture,
become irrelevant in debauchery,
who call unto dance+,+ & destruction . . .+
"White bird in a golden cage" . . .+
"Hurry high, butterfly" . . .+, +