The King of Beers

Transmitter wrote this in the wee hours:

The epicenter of mediocrity,
The grand basin of tranquility,
The heartland prepares for harvest.

The dust, an empty carapace, lacking nutrients,
Twists and consumes to fill its void.

Dormancy: the trough of a sign wave.
Before greatness comes great mediocrity.

The land — locked in dormancy gathers strength,
Pressure that pushes plants and awakens New Madrid.

Another wave in the dust,
As contradictions run together,
Like a chain of S’s, incomplete infinities.

Corn and hops suck at a dry drink.

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2 Responses to “The King of Beers”

  1. Transmitter Says:

    Note: Feel free to critique this. There are parts that I’m happy with, but I feel like it could use more. I just don’t know what.

  2. Oda Says:

    it doesnt quite take me anywhere yet; no tricks or aces up your sleeve this time?

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