Can the mind over-come itself?
Or so asks an old melting comb,
tooth and hair comfortably twined.
What goes into a good comb-over?
A flit of god, ego’s overlook,
far flung past the gone precipice.
Facts gleaned clear by an onset peace,
forced tact in a toupée of farce.
Man’s mind ponders a bald forest —
family of confounds, peers rused,
ignorance ignored in transit.
combed over with stubborn porosity.