A base, a platform and the stress.
The seasonal change of your waist. From:
S
to
M
onto
L and Excel.
The drill, now peckish and tracking the smell.
Below lay the soup - that precious puree.
So, 20 set out. Gloved routine, greasing the grunt - releasing the eel.
When,
something got stuck in my eye.
On the shore, a spirit, in dancing distress.
Signalling mercy - calling for less.
There was then that sound.
The cracking of pillars
your spine