The future has already been curated
Within the premise of my head
So many things to be said perfectly
I rehearse them like a professional DJ
But conversation is really the
Sensitive swing of a pendulum

In that lucid, off-white void that
Matures between motion and memory
Fractals are trapped in an infinite loop
Ripens in burnt amber, dies in turkish rose
It’s a fancy line of glitter, dividing
Dedication and masochistic egotism