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,
to sing,
to re-enact Eleusinian mysteries
time to make dust the president of the student loans company