The Middleman is at the start
with a fistfull of pockets.
He walks more than he talks it, with
empty hands.
Orange Peel knuckles; peeling, showing
A segmented truth. He mocks it.
Wholly revealing hisself with
waterbottle lungs,
Breathing, squeezing; knuckles popping
cracking, rabble-rousing-
The
Jenga game of a rib cage -
- sounding skeleton and shouting -
As the beating heart un-falls apart
Unprotected, Uncontained.
By what unscrutability
can a pure heart be blood-stained?
As his vain-ed cadence flows below the stone
The stone; a frame, posed.
Humble, yet reigns.
Like, the middleman comes to the end and
By God! Someone's killed the messenger, By God!
Inadvertent
Changing channels, all this
static passive
staging Battles
A rib cage match like unintended, homicidal rattles
As spinal shivers, the Middleman Delivers.