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*

   [Click the link above and look left for
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