Språkspel

Bloom,
for the day, gone, washed, dried out.
Let me, the Rigid, die,
as the collateral must
of biodiversity.

Malcreated. Misinformed.
I am waveform, uniform!
I have mass.

I am muck in eye.
Glued-on, quite relenting, sticky death.
All for the sake of nothing.
I have mass.

Cannot grasp the awesome and the wild.
It seems that my own ism is a schism between isms,
rotated to the front.
I have mass, drying the days,
chipping away at nonsense.