Too content with discontent,
utter misery of static “Exhibit A” life.
To fraught in the worry of transformation,
what remains but the diseased carapace?
Why suffer through the motions;
insufferable contagion of parasitism?
Reap the bone harvest in the closet,
skeleton thoughts set to march.
Plots picked to precision,
“To the neatly organized mind”---
this is death, the next adventure.
“In reality”----
the self-fulfilling prophecy of your life.
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