I easily confuse your ****** shrapnel with beauty. 

When hearing the symmetry in the voice of gods. 

That sweet balance of indirect proportionality. 

Like sloshing foam trapped in an equilateral cradle. 

Your lies always calming me into the ease of this chaos. 

All these nights spent in this parking lot.
(You’d don’t know: I’ve been here before)

But now having tasted it, I can’t comprehend how to push back the veil. 

And finally getting what I asked for, I can’t take the weight. 

This reality sends me begging. 
Cowaring in the corner.
Choking on all the variables. 

Reneging for my well-worn cross.