Weight .8

Hyperbole tariffs - gentle sways of tree branches.

We’ve both worn the breeches of young boyism. Does its niche matter dissolve?

Into light, or abroad, where the loaf is served under moonlight.

Hours pass as conditions change to loathsome, an invented mass.

Corridors of our youth will be found in the early morning hours near the calm ocean of India.

I digress; my mother’s love is here and we will party until noon.

Do you want to party? Nothing is over, lover.