Threaded Risk, Eye of a Needle

For one prolonged moment,
wandering, waiting, here,
or loitering, perhaps;
the cold death lies within its certainty,
holding to a lie, certainly.

Such a lie, and one of many;
like candy,
a sweetness that follows a bitterness eternal;
to regret, to anger,
and fear one’s attachment to the maternal.

It repeats, it reminds,
a course, one different but the same;
the actions, of oneself unchanged,
in all attempts to manage or recreate;
an edge created instead cuts into law.

Unrenewed, that self, quite chained,
before a straightjacket or pair of cuffs
and a destination, so close,
for a thoughtful zombie,
one that would fail to live on the streets.

To feel a rise, and fall so far, so often,
subducted by the impulse,
wired, but deft in the small;
tired now, and once without end,
a sleep, and a want of not waking.

Holding dirt before holding water,
tracking mud, and dragging behind;
fruitful tripe becoming overripe
with time lost listening,
too often for absorbed answers.

And left to answer alone
in a tower made with invisible beams;
it means to be seen when shifting;
a surprise, the eyes feared are blind
with another order built on disorder.

A smile appears, for creation occurs;
crafty, yet childish, absurd;
meaning lost, the support dwindled,
the threads have frayed, and warnings were given;
suddenly serious, whole days are ruined with speed.

Seemingly harmless, well-known for their tease;
irresponsible tones made common with ease,
it makes those blind the more scary at first,
but child’s play this all is,
compared to the worst.

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