We talk of the elegy
Of our wastebin dreams.
We twirl on the grave
Of oh wells.
There are groves of
Refreshed perspectives,
There's no need
To avoid the glass shells.
Let us stomp
On the fragments that
May be lost,
Let us collage what
Refuses to change.
We scoff at the thought
Of conformity,
No painless road
Will let us stay strange.