Jul 19, 2011 14:46
Stand upright and speak slowly.
Your tongue is on fire.
In flames.
I can distinguish the extinguisher.
Set aside for probable cause.
Set within arm’s reach.
Set to start ticking with a pin pull.
Set to explode with a trigger release.
The fame detonates, celebratory, from confetti paper curls of confident colors.
The glory exacerbates itself.
The mold grown too thick too quick.
Can’t cut through.
It’s so simple to stick with, to sit down, to bide time.
When the end comes, knocks once on the red wooden door called now.
No answer.
No one is home.
Gets pushed away, forced to leave, again.
Is it frightening?
Does it incite feverish night terrors of uncertainty and the unknown?
In retrospect, could you have leaped sooner?
In hindsight, should you have expected a net?
Could it have been a better idea to lay stale?
Would it have been a more viable option to sit stagnate?
How is that propaganda on the inside of your eyelids?
Is it a good read?
When you finish, it will begin again.
Full circle.
Like the wheel to steer a massive barge.
But the compass is broken.