Can’t get a grip on it, damn
feeling eludes incarceration;
could I stare it in the face I’m
sure we’d see a lighted way
Comes from where I’m waiting
functionally displaced, edgily
aware no handholds or banisters
shore up assumed proclivity
So this is the stairwell to your
penthouse suite – you seem more
concerned with trembling than
avoiding something inimitable
What is there to be afraid of? Is
it a last supper of liberty before
the bond is made; would a wake
place things properly?
Don’t care for dissonance my
sweet, the reason is unmistakably
evident – we’re in it together
for the same pared reasons
© 12 July 2010, I. D. Carswell
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