is the whistle warm?
calling in to the flamboyantly obscure,
Mandelbrot alarm
in degree of sirens whir
hand cranked gears of harsh inform
expressing signal warning, act unsure,

please panic,
out paced, out classed, and in style.
Our fashion to despair. In vogue to tremble shake.
Looking for a gate, herding hell to open space,
raising gruff from humble, adamantly stammering stances of modern fate
bound to be untethered, seeking constant confining grace
where wrists are frail and lacking weight of cuffs contain,
instead drawn vague conclusions harking mercy’s waste
undeserving of the wording which would pronounce our verdict state
will renown as compromising for the sake of simple taste,
yearn for feelings that we had when our self was forming face,
blame the craving, drive the wager, improbable escape
waiting rooms, for newer queues which lead to vacant haste,
substantial delay in readiness for purpose thought past date,
hovering above nothing firmer than accidental commonplace,
slipping in to habits, patches sewn in to fabric, lacking cloth for canvas,
wetting brushes parched with stagnant utterly languished lacquers,
coating appetites with with fragrant lambics until the spice eats through the stanza.