A tap dance, on the borderline of the inevitable,
Hoping for a new kind of mutation to break the spell,
Speaking in a foreign tongue with controversial thoughts,
Maybe if I give in to the free fall, the pattern will fall as well.

The world is cursed with a slumber that drinks their souls,
And eats at their instincts of right and wrong,
Apparitions clutching customs they've made in the dead of night,
Oh but it's bright morning in their native tongues.

Clinking glasses with liquids more volatile than their brains,
I'm at the same table trying to dodge their dripping DNA,
Nodding my head when they say sanity is south of dreaming,
And agreeing to make an appointment with the future on Monday.

Somehow I'm in pause, tripping into a glitch in time,
Where am I? Staring at a tailored form of acceptance,
It's ice cold, stale colors, mildly pleasant curt nods,
I gasp for blackness, just anything with which I can make sense.

Maybe if I stare so hard at the ceiling I could see the sky,
And if I daydream too much I could hold the upper hand,
I close my eyes, I leave the railing, and I do give in,
But too early they're open again,
and things are no longer under my command.