Image by Tellabeltz

In case you didn’t notice,
This poem is composed
Of custom-seconds,
The first of their kind,
Each one distilled from
An eon. They’re concentrated,
That’s for sure,
And they pack a wallop.

Their moment-count is
Exceedingly high.
Think of a simile
Involving blood,
Hemoglobin and
Lance Armstrong.
You get the picture.

In case you’re wondering,
Yes, that is indeed the reason
For the tangy taste,
And the conical shape
Of the sounds you’re saying,
Which have all been built
To last. Just try this poem
Without them.


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