Digital numbers on the tower bridge welcome me to the morning
The stairs relinquish their divide of where I stand and Pat E. Oh
Something whispers silence is soup for the salacious
Damsels and lords fake interest in my matters of least arrangement
No quarrel with that
Prophecy is a jinx to tomorrow's byline
A spoiler like the one on Rajeesh's Corolla
But unstoppable as a metaphor foreseeing your place
in eternity
We, the love children, have no bucket list
Our strikethroughs are pendants on destiny's babydolls
A scrumptious succession featuring cleanups of today's spillover
Ever thankful that this guy survived the vote and lives on to
Send another message to the stand-ins and bystanders
That sorrow fades and romance pervades this sacred place called
Paradise