you sent an inquiry to my heart.
anxiety rose.
i appealed your probe of my soul.
because i needed to attend to the inflection,
of the phrases that potentially could lead to the finale.
little do you see i’m like a ******,
hidden among the rooftops of the metaphysical.
i analyze every stir, shift, and statement,
this all happens at reckless readiness.
a sharpshooter protects someone or something,
i only ride shotgun for my heart.
history has validated i must.
i’m fearful if i don’t my sorrow,
will engulf my soul, if that transpired,
i would be vacant
frame,
and my book,
would be forgotten,
no one
appreciates, values or loves a fragmented
soul.