Be careful because control is a maze

that bores intruders into a raw lull,

reducing their worldliness to a phase

in a bloody sojourn to spite the Bull:

Meaning lacks finishing from loose grammars,

and the webs they spin are more like cocoons—

ridiculous cotton candy stammers

of suicidal clown bards from blue moons:

Arrebol – like lit coal, cold in the eye

whose magic embers peel like oranges,

leaving mystery-white fibers behind –

against the backdrop of a drunken guess:

Fortune’s labyrinth is monocursal;

“fate” is top-down, which means no rehearsal.