I met a farmer in an agriculture store 
Who used to say: "To God, many thanks." 
Pose by the swamp, near hope, to the soil, a gravid shake, a demolished fragment exclaims. 

Early to remember the invincible quality 
of my training as a regenerative prop, 
broadening, 
corrective rapture 
ice would decorate the ages of my cryosleep trope. 

Wait until you hear the noise. 
like a scary story, 
suspenseful and shocking, 
it was the tombstone of my voice. 

But I broke free, 
like a dead personage, 
a zombie with shackles through the drain. 
I can be free to roll ignored. 
No faulty opinion to stain me. 
No wrathful desire to check my space dust. 

Ask me where the vitals meet 
to meet you out of the storm. 
Wrecking up the woody idols, 
of Anubis and Thoth. 
Nutritive. 
Awake and foaming. 
A conservative spectacle. 
Firmly adored. Taunted ovals. 
Every second spent with me was a waste of boredom.