There's a point when it all becomes okay,
a sense of divine clarity,
when you know for certain that no one wins,
the rules are always bent,
the good ones get away,
and summer is always spent.

There's a sound finer than your favorite music,
a voice begging for your safekeeping,
when you know for certain that at least one person,
for one spell, wants yourself, your health,
the gifts turn old,
beauty levitated by introspective wealth.

There's always a trail, there's always four walls, never an escape,
a broken heart crying for your broken neck,
when compliments wash ashore against a sea of catastrophe,
their hate proves your worth, your weight, your sting,
a perpetual feast of old, distasteful words,
your frightened mouth fired in haste.