Tonight, this is a short poem called "Epiphanies
of Suppression (3)."
No, it's this world we know little of.
Kindly it hides and gratefully we are hidden.
So mentality drives the spoon, noting lips' aspirant
deference.
Got to get by without a ladder's seemly plaque.
Where to spin?
The cotton lurches for its gin.
But fear never trusts its maker.
Eyes hold glances to know containedness, ignite each door
to dissimulate apparatus' reliquary.
Or holes to holler to.