Soaring through the waxwing slain

One sound, one bearing

None to fight the slain waxwing feign

 

No contortions and no appobations of collegiate youth

but the mere understanding of what 

it is

what it really is

to be me

 

Bitcoin statisician, verbal surgical precision

Mind with the math and machine of the words

Coming to gracing terms of repressed adolecence

Nothing can ever be the same

When no waxwing are slain

 

To slay is a  power befallen on me

The waxwing a mere hologram into thine eyes

Yet what more can I be

When the rest is none but solemnity

 

What more to be than not to be

than 

A waxwing slain