Gory. Memory. Glory.

Let the tresses fall... fall apart today!

Let them not be tied to the tee, let them
not be knotted perfect. I like them free.
Like you, unlike me.

There were days when we admired the Sun... in all it's glory,
and gory, occasionally. But then came the waters, taking
the mothers apart from the daughters. The daughters had a failed existence anyway.
We are tagged regressive after all.

Somewhere it doesn't add up.
The numbers, the emotions, the history, the culture -
the tradition of procrastination and failing when and where it matters.
It's just too perfect to be true, or so it seems.

Let the winds blow us off tonight.
Let the tresses, again, fall off.
Imperfection, is sometimes, beautiful.
For without chaos, order is just not monotonous.
Predictability is death.

Come. Let's live and jive.
Again. Once again. And Again.