Pressurized Air
Location
How easy it is
To dibble and dabble,
To dribble and drool.
For the honest man's answer
Is usually this:
"Anything I please."
I may jive, and give jist
To any sort of conceptual mist
But if I list too far off the beaten path,
I myself will be "beaten".
Like eggs,
Which emulsify a universally recognized conglomeration
Of ingredients,
Which I so defiantly am included.
Originality?
More accurately, rehashing.
But am I to ask
The ubiquitous inquiry,
"Why and from where does meaning
Formulate and give flight?"
Inspite of obvious
And oblivious subjectivity,
Who would one be
If they didn't pry
Into such a trite question?
Congruent and convoluted,
The projections of our manners
Float yet sink simultaneously,
Like flying tile
Or submerging birds.
"You jest!"
"So absurd!"
Merely words.
A product of lude and idealized
Reactants.
If balanced, the composition
Of our beguiled raiments would read:
(in the presence of pressure)
N2 + O2 + CO2 + ect. --------------------------------------> "Choice"
But rejoice!
For our dissillusioned schemas
Have all been so playfully
Tacked and embelished.
Captivated air,
Manifesting in ink,
And it all holds a net volume
Of nil.
A pill is a thrill.
A 'tit' is for 'tat'.
And I, to you, and the aggregate,
A transparent crest and creed.