In The Making Poem by Oleg Vorobyov

The destiny's child summons humours and rheums
To build more stamina in its flabby form.
The crust of the planet its innards exhumes
To posture as shrivelled, contortionist worm...

Who cares for meaning in these frenzied tropes
To clinch to precision the wordiness rank?
Perhaps, to resort to vague Logos he hopes,
Where only soars high an unreachable plank.

The stamper of keys, knows he what's his reach?
The jumble of fonts and zigzaging flash-thoughts.
Does have he to teach he's supposed to preach
In skein of ideas and tangle of words?