I’m a smith with a pen, yet I now use my thumb – riffing through couplets, some smart all are dumb. If that statement leaves you frazzled confounded – suspicions peaking crested dumbfounded, that’s normal, expected – sit back in reflection. Trust the subconscious whose a much bigger you, I’m confident in Truth because it holds me too. Somehow this knowledge proliferates to thumb-touches, an endless story yearning for crushes cradled curdled and riddled in obviousness: I’m humbled by grandiosity and yearn for obsequiousness: the kind of simplicity ignorance thinks it attains in a murky chaos forlorned and disdained, “how can this happen? And why to me?” It all made sense in eternity – fascility is fascinating, easier than discriminating those who look at similar mirrors: wonders and blunders of self-serving fears or something deeper in dishes pies sausage sugar. Crystalize clarity: a frozen endeavor