some sweet yesterday
asked some word to be,
begged the world, you see
to me-
so,
the plutocracy of conceit 
feeds,
though withered against
the voice that screams
incomplete, is all will ever
be
vesiculated memory,
let bleed
to save the system’s whole-
suppression 
at the toll
of provocation delay 
one day, towards two,
to weeks,
and solar turns
until what little left to burn
grows damp,
cold,
at ease
as tension breeds
beneath
the charred remains
almost asphyxied,
but fury bound
within,
and without such stimulation
the couched elation 
might bring the structure in
to conflagration