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 feel better
So he may claim to justify every day ever,
A day where a milestone is two miles behind
and feel great about the great things that he says
Although the things he says might be blind

Every day, while the things that fall, the things that matter
will one day show the world of his worth;
That maybe they’d regret the day they said he swerved
Along a course of wrong and sinful conviction.
Against the odds that maybe what he says is only the exposition

Every night,
while the truths rang and headaches pang he sang
He sang about the gout and the dirty sayings displayed
And every night shouting rooftop flings like songs that sings
emotion and pride and how his love never died
The things that fall, the things in and outside.

Every night,
while the things that sink, he’d think and think
while on the brink of disclosure like an enclosure of simplicity
The cage that is,
not a rhapsody of complete embracery
to the one juror that matters, the side where it shattered
Despite the things that fall and splatter

These are the things that fall until you feel small
Until the emaciated guilt drips inseminated hatred
Among things better left unsaid, the things evicted
from mouths with tongues stabbing spittle
Spewing fluid and subtle hints of being caught in the middle
The subtle hints, the subtle screams;
the fall.
Heights that bite at the bottom concrete
The leap before the reaping shadow people reaps

Never deny or mistake,
the risk that this isn’t fake
Or the fall after a cry for help,
so help.

© theoriginofmagic