A roll of the eyes
to Pattern's demise.
While in the back
they take what they lack:
the sight to see flight
of chaos within an order-byte.
See the splash refreshes
the sponge's fleshen meshes,
to gleam the resemblances
from molecules and droplets.
The child of meshen, flighty eyes,
with a face of elven skies,
(That hang low in the day)
Spoils himself to the innate
Not a spare for the Pension or the contemplate.
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