No vacuum, no island, no escape . . .
(for the zombies . . . )
I stand at your precipice, my 'precipice' of perfect calm,
with the piercing, penetrating Voice, waiting, with no room . . .
. . . between you and the words you've self placated.
So I wait, while you simmer, basted in time waste
you've so very, very carefully prepared, with 'spices.'
And while I wait and while you cook, you decompose.
But don't take it out of the oven or off the cooktop.
You won't like what you see, I know.
"How do I know?" - More to the point, Why do I know?
I've watched you . . . without looking . . .
. . . or even needing to. - *selah*
Be sure to check out the rest of MayarOwl's bloggetry
directed toward detractors, eh? - *shaking head*
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