you punch above your weight
but you dangle like tinsel from the lash of an evergreen eye.
you're smart enough to rough it
in the brambles of your entropy. but your saving grace, a lie -
it permeates an absolute that never bargains
as you scale the wall of coordinates to a distant shore
where a far cry counts for something; but the irony
is lethal.

you're jumping the broomstick with a ghost
and that will haunt you; when you lose the ring.
and that will be the day that the rain wept for thee
but strangely enough, not for what
you think.