Smooshy Moon

The sovereignty of you slips. Can anything be managed? The reigning alignment of your focus oscillates. Brash idealism! Cardinal puddle. Kinky queen? Six units of semi-soft sandalwood-scented waxes. Dawning truth? Twilit vestiges of small talk, churning in parched wobbling. Your good ideas seem more inert than usual. Your feelings stop fluttering when you put a word on it. You can compromise with neither clock nor compass. Nothing can be managed now. Can you or can you not command the water?