Every night,
a pedantic array of whim displays casts among caskets
And basket cases over long time indecision;
Basking in baths bracing teeth baring
the insecurity of the infinite.

Every night,
He elusively eludes the elimination
of the contemplation
between emotion and reason
And the incomplete delineation
between foe and friend.

Every night,
while the things that fall and fly off shelves
with pages and broken glass panes and pangs of phobias;
He denotes notions of love with potions
And rotations with the inability to justify
sensibility or the lack thereof.

Every night,
a contrite fight to rewrite the vague bread pan of wrong becomes a throng of more than hopeless
As every day starts as a play poorly scripted;
Inscribed by the things that fall and the things encrypted

Every night,
Inside his head where the incise truth of it all
Explains what's rational but then is overcome by ladders that leads only to a point where his pride breaks and shatters

Every night,
The rush in a race to see who he can make...