Chaos had always been an underrated catalyst,
what with things going back and forth,
to and fro,
too and fro,
There was a bee that stung the back of my neck,
he didn't know any better,
that I was gravely allergic to his insides,
and that he would be the end of me,
then and there,
And once he got under my skin,
and once I knew I was done for,
the bedlam took on a mind of its own,
perhaps I was schizophrenic,
capable and incapable of the same emotion,
no more so than with love,
yes,
this was the order of my disorderly conduct,
ornate,
fashionably horrific,
wrapping around me line a malignant vine
and so I moved,
more than to,
and just past fro
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