Adnate To The Funicle Poem by Robert Ronnow

      Accepting aloneness, incomplete solitude, imperfect
            rest. The garden
wasted, pumpkin patch planted late, potatoes untasted
      left in ground.

      A thousand email addresses, each unique represents
            a flame of
passion, compassion, desperation or depression. To
      understand, to know's

      impossible. It is therefore only reasonable to
            observe the shadows
on the mountain, the actions of the dreamer which tell us
      something,

      little, nothing of his dream. It's a simple secret
            shared,
longevity. The half breed John Russell says it right, the

      date and place don't matter, dry desert or cold
            mountainside,
lush bottomland, soulless or hospitable, contagious
      hospital.

      The best laugh's death's, a perfect escape, perfect
            error, perfect
rest. Their solicitude's unnecessary, grief is temporary,
      life goes on,

      you go under, underemployed, the undertaker's
            never unemployed.
Forensics prove an ovary with two chambers, ovule
      adnate to the funicle.