Familiar, these dim pathways I trod with trepidation, with hesitant steps, and arms outstretched to feel sight during temporary blindness. Recognizable in that I comprehend I'm lost, anew, behind the enemy's line and far from the fight, inside that evil opponent's territory.
Normal is this hesitation of control, this second-guessing burned-hand syndrome from lashes and burns and bright white lies to cover...the scars. Eyes widened in panic, can't get the direction focused on the dial, inwardly rages meaningless debates that justify nothing, not even the wasted time spent upon their defense.
Routine is a worn groove of lapsing in fortitude, slipping in strength, sliding downward with storybook charmed hopes and disastrous words that bind this broken reality to sturdy joists beams of actuality, of regret, of whipped confidence. Leaving the chained fool, restrained and captured, on public display as the example for viewing: here droops broken hope.
2 comments:
read what you said. hit me with all sorts of emotion. A little says a lot! peace bro.
Thanks for checking in. Sometimes it feels good to let this stuff inside me out. I appreciate your response.
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