Carbon imprints

by the cbw

I’m not feelin’ you

The way I wanted to

(existential clues)

Where is that grindin,

And my soul asks why?

Cake means two things

And I ain’t eating

Like a man w/o a mic

Or a pulpit, soapbox;

Pursuing moby dick.

Q: give me a coffin

So I cannot be

Lonely, on the forked

Road set before me;

Closed on the (in)n

But not quite pin(n)ed

Down, yet respite

Always needs signs

Like leaves in grass,

Raked and gloved.

A century and a half

Behind those times

I translate subtle

Things those may

Despise, but the clime

Corrupted me

Incarcerated by the

Hov-lanes taken

To hotels of that

Ancient (and) constant

aqueduct of safety:

Lockdown = scarred by whales,

Stockmarkets, and


)reversible options(

Whitness those

Prescient, un-scientific

Lines;  here’s hoping

History isn’t looping,

Romans aren’t sacking,

Sabotaging a 4(all)-seat

Lincoln, frost-freezed

And sorely mistaken;

Feel me lord, for

I am forlorn…

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