Deceptions finest monologue
was that sorrowful speech that you let yourself utter
the night before last.
I let our identities spiral about the universe
and for a few moments,
I gathered a few passing glances at some other worlds.
To me they look like better possibilities.
Withered feathers best described
our flight patterns.
Some storms blocked our way,
nocturnal entities from the next dimension
gather at stations and vicariously
live life
through your eyes.
I wont be the sacrifice,
I don’t wanna be a prospect.
Your soul is distilled into spirits.
My was made into mead.
The confidence is hardly in low stock.
But decisions are.
Tick-tock,
Tick-tock.