my ability to see pattern
the very proof of intention
is wasted on the intimacy of inevitably:
that closely following feeling
of certain failure

it blinds my ascension
as I enter a state of grey
failed ambition

deliriously so, I trip
all to lay pressed to the floor
closer to my new destination

the sound of my chaotic beast
oh, I can hear it scratching
wanting to get in
it eats away the walls of reason
devouring its prey like a glutton
until all that is left is a space of sorrow
what became of today
never made it to morrow