The trying course,
Discourse relenting,
Powers force reactions venting,
Hours' worth of pent perception,
Devour worth and end ascension,

Now is heard in muffled mentions,
A bow absurd in times like these,
Ignoring words and vows and deeds,
Crouched between three unmet needs,

Foul is the feigned and ******,
Vowels groaned, thrown and ******,
Through a throat wound tight in lust,
Hoping for a pleasure plush,

Comma, comma, colon,
Pause between two swollen jaws
Deceived by laws believed
To right the wrongs
Mischieved by willful spirits' songs,

While all along,
The gong awaited's
Never beaten by a soul,
So left in throes a child's hated
Fate is coping with the throngs,

Every second's stretched to cover,
Fields of fresh and fertile ground,
So as not to utter sound,
To disallow another's doubt,

And put stop to my stutter.

Everything is real,
As comprised by the light of a thousand minds,
Perspectives shining on a center
Projected by a need,

It is all real,
Consumerism, survivalism, capitalism, and faith,
Trauma, neglect, health, and esteem,
Intensity varies,
What commands our grace,
Is determined by what is most often received,

When the stage is reset,
All the players be changed,

If a threat is so lifted,
Will you still then perceive
It as present?

Deranged,
Acting as if still at siege,

Seeing others as willfully negligent beings.

Easy to learn to adapt to a danger,
Harder to learn to adapt to peace.

But everything's real,
The promise, the pain,
So best aquiesce to the range as its seen,

Stuck to protect what's no longer at hazard,
Is crazy at least,
And if brave,
Ill-conceived.

A deep need, like a sickle,
Cuts through thoughts and refinements
Until the tip breaks against
My nature,

Open, thriving, cursing,
Casting spells and aspersions,
Playing at bits and soundbites to ward off expectation,

That sickle swings into the core of me.
Until the tip breaks against my nature,

And I ask again,
For one final permission,
To be everything I am,

From someone as mortal as the universe.

And it is granted.

But I grunt and curl around a wound,
Bleeding instructions on how to heal the world,

Knowledge holding water like a rag,
While intuition rages and fragments identity,

That sickle swings into the core of me,
The tip breaks against my nature,
And I ask to be excused from everything I am,

Because it means holding still in the fires of my friends,
Until we learn our way from devastation.
And I'd rather those conflagrations not exist at all.

And then the sickle swings again.

Is it time that heals?
Because years passed like traffic,
And hallow I remained,

The truth?
Healing happens
In moments
When it occurs
To you
What's still right,

And good.

And time teaches us patience.

Oh my mighty heart,
So small, and frail,

Fighting to burn to no avail,
A hearth of embers singing what passion must not consume,

Demands so tall the order written on a ream.

In letters too large to read.

Naturally,
I long to achieve balance,
This does not make me unusual,
But rather quite the average type
Of living being on this planet,

But how I fight,
And writhe,
And seethe,
May make me eccentric,

I will not moan,
Complain or hold,
A grudge if I may be so bold,

To say that I,
Would rather die,
Than be the one left unattended,

When yielding more than others render.

What grace through harsh critique,
Can untangle views that mangle, confuse,
The understanding of one's place?

When, for sport,
Others contort,
The contours of a face,

How can it be,
That the power of glee,
Does rise above the disgrace?

So inopportune,
The options that loom,
They giveth, but taketh away,

To win is to lose,
The sport's to abuse,
The victor withdraws from the game.