A clique on words
when the game was on.
I was caught off
talking and stammering
of hasty puns and guns.
but it was all good,
only good as can be.

the shoes are both left
while the strings are tied.
one glimpse on bitters;
two cheers on wine.
they started on a struggle
a never ending battle.
until on the other hand
was a stroke of a genius.
and gone was it all;
almost love and almost fall.

the abstract has always been doubt.
yes, he always liked to be unsettled;
too weary to continue
yet too hungry to pursue.

a vague cause and a superstition
for reason no one can recall.
the backslashes of memoirs
take entirely the moments
of what is now and what's tomorrow.

to let and be succumbed
to being the point of what's sane.
to surrender to what's fond of
or to grant freedom of what's gained.