iii. Eulogy of An Appetite

There’s something about apathy

at the table, where the

group sits, divides and multiplies.


Blossoms of vine orchid, that

foreign star whose light is

all that remains.


Remnants of heartfelt reverberations,

all tendrils spread out an

orbit of the chaotic.


What order shall these arms

bring, but immanence, limit

experiences, limited by incessant



This I shall, I shall stand upon

that moving, shifting, cornucopiac

colours spread.


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