Seventy-Fourth Entry

Hanging out at the pad, you know, just chilling. Today's poem was written on Amy's typewriter.

Here's my poem:

SYMPATHY FOR THE WEEVIL

Tumbling comets, staying
out of sight like video game
minions,buggered in ruddy
tunnels, awaiting
editing, hidden in the dark
production suite, suit
hanging on the coatrack,
elegant protagonists outside,
polite, awkwardly walking
in the directions of said storms,
watching my body in the midst
of an imperfect dive, just
at the edge of decadence, sad
that the point of the quest
was to be cool and sage-like
not wandering the highway but
chasing a lovelorn valkyrie,
broken in half by the plot
straightened and re-connected
and then torn back apart
before the final chapter.