Everyday Majestic Musings

The promise of biotechnology,
a spiraling vision for all to see,
in stark opposition
to moral decision,
could be to abet an atrocity.

Across the lot standing stonefaced,
an untitled woman encased
in black and white flowers
for fighting the powers
that would see her skin tone erased.

Stand behind the yellow line.
Not blue like Klein, not red red wine, not puce-ish pink like calamine.
The sign declines divine design.
The sign enshrines thy storyline.

No deadline for a live line where a life line flatlines.
Not a dead line, a lifeline, this death line.
A bright line for a bloodline.
It's a foul line, this foul line,
a fell line, this fall line.
For some a goal line,
for all a front line.

We, the undefined undersigned, remind the plum wine inclined:
Please, stay well off the well-off line,
lest one's incline go supine,
one's plumb line turn minus sign,
one's outline make headlines.

For the saddest punch line outshines the sunshine:
"But doctor," the B whines,
"I am the train line!"

Pink puffs proliferate.
Boughs bend beneath their weight.
Blossoms bloom to captivate
buzzing bees that circulate
and congregate and pollinate
to help the cherries propagate.