My Choice of Apparel

I’ve done grown too big for my tired, ‘ole britches
Leaving exposed for high waters my socks
I’ve done ripped apart the bulk of my stitches
So that raggedy pieces fall off as I walk
Though this image befalls me, I have not a care
For my pasty, white skin sure could use the fresh air
I’m proud of the state of my tired, ‘ole britches
Worn loud, as proof of worlds found beyond wishes

Tacit Cycles

I’ve reached a beginning concerning all that I know
All that I’ve acted towards reduced to a flow
Superpositioned, primed and raring to grow
Into an image revealing all that I’ve sown

In this sense I’ve broken through Death’s tinted screen
Fostering fears of an end brought by means
Of the body’s digestion of sights caught between
So that through this transcendence my soul becomes clean