Nuclear Sun
A Gyre to geld my baby in any which way
To maim my offspring in any season
A crime, though posh, a crime.
To venture to harm my baby,
Enterprising to injure my child,
Is to re-do it all, all your work in life,
Like coming back in a circle to the beginning.
That state where it’s all dicey.
No clothes, no money, no wares.
That stage before you were a baby, all dark
To touch my child is a gyre.
My child is my throne, my sword, my wares,
Entire life earnings for his arrival and triumph,
Upheaval of his ascendancy would cause brouhaha
Like that of the explosion of a nuclear sun.
Your existence would come full circle
Don’t trip my baby’s angel hurdles
I’ve tried and failed and not for naught
A kinglike throne of legal tender shines with the energy, awaits,
Grant me a boon and harass elsewhere
Or stay and introduce yourself to my fist, your terminus,
Punctuated with interrobangs.
To disturb my baby is to plunge yourself in the unforgiving star
The fierce mental ignition at the start and finish, Gyre.
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