And as the porcelain castrato explodes, those who presumed are left abashed...

When the shoebox collapses, the roach is free to goo.
The adhesive quality of sociopathy is a danger to all.
The righteous are just as good.
The still-lit blade shaves closer than a lubricating strip.
The liar always wins, deceived of it's own true goals.

When the goat has simply had enough, it may cry.
The smile is no longer a happy thing.
The laughter inspires expiration.
The expired deadline reveals it's own inefficacy.
The words never even got close.

When the chemicals cannot be held back, they spread.
The acid burns the metal to salt.
The thirst is encompassed by opposing forces.
The balance, when struck, will ring, or click.
The situation may be avoided.

When the day arrives, it will run, again.
The fled are rightly judged weak.
The weak are rightly put to death.
The dead are rightly kept so.
The zombie begs to differ.

When the zombie lets go of its pride, the robot is complete.
The rust hardens, brittle it cracks.
The water displacer seals, protects, until wiped clean, perhaps after.
The energy has to come from somewhere, it is not yet clear.
The clarity is a tale we tell our elderly, something to believe.

When the charlatan runs out of words, he will deny this.
The struggle is one-sided, it fights with it.
The victory is incomprehensible, unlikely, static.
The static always moves, always has.
The misnomer is all that signposts the way, now.

When the signpost points along Z-, the arbiter has the advantage.
The axis is relative to the axes.
The head is split wide, leaking.
The choice is only to postpone, token, arbitrary.
The predestination of things is counter-intuitive, depressing.

When this is all done, maybe the porcelain can turn to flesh.
The high voice ground low, abrasion as redemption.
The external pressure equalised, the event less likely.
The presumption is character, whole as of itself.
The meaning is unintentional, if at all.