wonder that
things fall apart
when, simply
by reacting, we deconstruct
the past—or worse
yet: simply by thinking,
we kick
the future's ass?
Picture layer
upon layer
of anger, guilt, resentment
laid down like shellac, like
goose grease,
like black ice
to slicken the surface—but
on the fence-less precipice
of what?
Is it any wonder
the mind's terrain is
so precarious?
To get out of our head
is hazardous
enough, but
it's twice
as far—twice as dangerous
to get back.
