it will frequently
flutter
if you
let it

the doubt, that is

there is no proper
preparation for
the plummet

even though you're terrified of heights
your stomach drops

falls to it's death

suicidal stomach syndrome

splattered about on sun-stained pavement
among chewed gum, spit and countless sin

you don't follow it down, not just yet
there's no reason to

all roads lead to the bottom

putting the bottle down
the only thing you're picking up
is another
or the tab

until your walking turns into a crawl

until everything spins so fast
that motor skills never existed in the first place

and before you know it
you're roadkill with the rest of 'em

scattered about with those pieces of yourself

drying out in unforgiving daylight