What's the point

In being annointed

A master 

Among disjointed

Word crafters,

Feather headed bird bathers,

And the severed heads of absurd cadavers?

I search the words for that perfect head hatter

Inside, who says exactly what matters

But I'd rather not blather

I'd rather have what I can hold

Moving no more than a wrinkled coat's fold

And feel you peel orange warm unto my cold.

The End

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