Aye

I stand in the center of coincidence .
I am the epitome of chance.
I exist as pair of ill-fated dice.

We deal with men and mice.
Most of the time we choose not to slice,
Because just letting it go will suffice.

Unfortunately now I sit on a pillar of ice,
My feet dangling in the air heavy with spice.
The taste of recent happenings have been anything but nice.
My very self, my only self has suffered a splice-

Di-ced-
Ser-ved wit-h rice-
Sweet smells only en-ti-ce
The W-e without ey-es

Later

There is a Post-it on my desk.

It's been sitting there for quite some time now.

I can't throw it away.

I can't remove it.

I can't hide it behind a book.

I can't lose it.

Better said,

I won't do any of the mentioned.

I want to burn it.

Tear it in half.

Shred the vile sight.

That yellow slip must go

Before I begin to Tear.

There is a Post-it on my desk.

It's not staying there for long.