And

And every stair's a spiral
chance, a simple
trip from there to
there

And the games are
dry and choking
and the moon is almost
here

And the take lacks
chance and chaos
and is never, always
empty

And it's nothing more
than and and or
and or is only this
time

And the more is
never nothing more
than what there is to
gain

And the end is
moderation, or something
smelling just as
rank

And in the gaps
of awkward travels
and their narcissistic
reign

Lie the echoes of
exaggeration, our
sirens of the
game.