what is the labor of love,
but the foul wind turned palatable?
fermented and bubbly, funky and oozing
the smell of decay becomes umami, how multi-cultural
it streaks over
the surface of cognition,
of waking life
what is the labor of love,
but the flow of time
turned stagnant
colored red and rosy in the reflection
of binoclard being
what is the labor of love,
but limbo incarnate?
wherein the preachers and proselytizers
beckon and reach out,
declaring judgement day has come
tremoring in fear and righteousness
what is the labor of love,
but that present
the Bodhisattva philosophizes
that which frees in asymptotic rush
truly, truly it must be
truly, i must think more on the matter
but time,
time
time i do not have
for labor without love
is labor extracted
compacted and distilled,
hollowed metal turned Capital,
its glory filled with heretics
painted targets of sacrifice
and encrypted messaging
time
time
time to breathe
to bake bread
but slave master calls again
time
time to paint, and sing,
re-enact Eleusinian mysteries
time to make dust the president
of the student loans company