What clot? This clot. This traffic-stopping clot.
Need naught be fought, to filter out this block,
We wait till time serves right to look and gawk
Into the empty white caused by this knot
No words to mind come though they ought
Synapse collapse, no ebb and flow, gridlock.
Dear god, this clot, I’ll be a laughingstock,
Do I own it, or can I be forgot?
To die and be forgot, if only… if…
If I were to write at all anything,
To let angst take me, “I… a cliff!”
Could wit be best, a bit of class it’d bring?
Something that leads to bitter tonal whiffs,
“To me, you look, ironic, humble king!”