Prisoners of precedent,
we're made of bees
and full of holes,
pursuing a sourplus of employment,
errors of production vs. errors of perception,
the luxury of weeping, wrestling—loosely—
with the ethics of the urge
to meet atrocity with annihilation,
with the purge of excessive focus.

God is maximum entropy,
and who cares?
Forever echoes
in an empty moment.
Retrograde degradation.