Boris

Swiftly it combs over itself
Nonexistent but totally introspective
Shivering with a drop of tears
A manifestation of heroic fear

To wipe clear the majority
A bonified confidence is destructible
Semi relative perspective
It drips with its own blood

Satisfied with the coming undone
But not with the undone coming
It turns a new shade of gray
With permission, a fantastic blade

Introverted, it cries a new song
One of desire and intangibility
An arsonist of the soul
Tearing it up in a fit of dissatisfaction

Possibly though, not dissatisfaction
But more knowledge of superior
Gripping onto what it knows as truth
It swells with the puss of negligence

For it you should cry
But if it does not show its face
You shall not recognize its deep pain
Less relief it of such feelings

When it is in a bubble, it sings
When it is in a house, it stings
When it is in a prison, it swings
And in a false connection, it continues

The simple beast means nothing
The Lone Warrior elevated
But if Boris does not
There will never be an anything