My Wounds Are Walnuts Parked In A Field Of Oncoming Traffic

Blessed are the meek, for they shall inherit an age of inscrutable things
that feast upon docile swarms of sensitives… but never says what your thinking
in a Eulogy. Only what you’re missing.
Usually.
But sometimes, like Most Times…. the wounds are like walnuts -
parked in a field of oncoming traffic.
Or some gratuitous cerebral laughter.
Choked from a spasm of serene
by the clutches of a Sphinx
with Midnight teats.
And a mane of plausible
Agonies.