Love, don't be sad; handshakes can bruise.
Their loud gift of gab, I hate it too.

Oh, but safe tunnel visions will guide us,
and fate's a funnel shaped at its end.
So whatever shape we'll take, dear, have faith:
It's always to ourselves we're led.

In a hallway of King's, we ponder this lock.
A guard at his keep. Rosalind, my thoughts:

Keys with more teeth keep them safer.
Well, we'll cut--then bare--our teeth too!
So let their whispers fade, self-contained
to this male-only lounge room.

We'll build us a shed
and from inside we'll plan
our silent advance through the dregs,
with drills placed ahead.
Though tumblers may crash,
unruptured, we'll pass into breath.

The vespers unheard, a lab to ourselves.
Connections, we EARN. Let none stoop to help!

But do some tunnel visions just grind us
down in the tip of a cone?
Now with our sights derailed, should we fail,
even this we'll never know.

For cells only shed
hardened skin from inside,
so all we've collided against
will fill up our heads
with no room to divide
into our own line of defence.

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