Cutter

Arbitrary landscapes in a flutter ’round the cellar
Are they moving interstellar
Being fortune and the teller
Not the sold and not the seller of the all consuming clutter

Piling in monuments of other minor moments
Where we measure in components
Being growth and how we’ve grown it
Into fountains full of foment fit to fade like just another

Trivial pursuit that we discover, like an idol,
Of a moon, and we the tidal
Wave we soon would see a bridle
Like a sun now suicidal with a mask of cloudy cover

Statuary still and here we shudder all the while
Putting factures into tile
Like a pre-existing style
Of the sad and how we smile when we see that we’re the cut and we’re the cutter