this could be for certain...
why do I trust myself to let go?
when hands slip from casey iron rungs
a children's playground
above a deeper craggy crevice
than Kilimanjaro is high
where loneliness and death is the only sound
do I trust parted wrenched fingers?
when the truth below-
earth is so glad to accept newly fallen
extra rich mulch eager sin and egalitarian strain
That my faith sees body, limbs,
whole being- disappear before it hits
the obtrusive carbon settled
zenith tripped
up before it's being- a black hole
dry the fugue derision of soiled sluff
emersions quippe wasted by
envisioned acoustics lest awaiting impact
by evil was foreseen and though I take
my final cause of paths
alight of principle
the evergreen turnstile
supplicant demon eliciting
pounding pain by the ducts
of each wave of thought
I am become DEMONSTREIN