There are few instances in a day when one can convey.
This city gets turned on by the smell of its own decay.
And referencing nature while only knowing remnants,
of which, are lined up and cut out mathematically, yet imperfectly.
Despite of all the talk about changing the self,
the fluidity lies in the circumstantial.
The monotonous repetition and contradiction,
desiring cold while hot and vice versa.
Left and right thighs twitch back and forth
while the grass around shivers and sways.
Sylvia Plath thought she was the God of grass
and so she had the power to take her own life.
Call it having short sight.