He’s a tall story, a cautionary,  
free-range lies, a diversionary,
nesting in a shallow reactionary
faction that believes in reality  
not, but in the tales of falsity 
told to subdue exponentially
a fear that wouldn't be necessary
if he hadn’t sold a tall story
that always blames pre-January.

Those days are his funerary,
it’s when he started to daily
check his ballet. His apothecary 
has sold out blame. His fiduciary 
shrinks, his ego, an obituary,
doesn’t know what’s dignitary:
it’s not fame, nor an itinerary
that fills his greedy insanity.

What’s elegant isn’t hereditary, 
but a stretching of vocabulary,
wisdom is what’s revolutionary. 

Shocked in pain, we act contrary
to a well-seasoned rationality,
crushed by raw emotionality,
we lose the shine of veracity. 

Choked confession, illusionary 
threats become inflammatory.

Without truth, the loss of audacity 
keep us from being extraordinary.  


			         Post
		modern
				 Sound
		bites

                DON't BE-eAT 
		  L-ick-E H!M

		  UTo-PIO-pIa 
		Ro-TIO-TEn-ED  
		      I-Ea-t'S
		F-EaR-earrrR


Signature Lina Ru