Sometimes I have a fear of great heights.
Or, more accurately, a fear of falling from great heights.
Or, more accurately, a fear of dying from falling from great heights.
Dizzying vertigo, upward and further go,
Into the clouds.
Breathing breeds sobriety,
Side effects include anxiety.
Descending the birth canal,
Into a endless free fall.
Death is just another landing point.
The fabric of reality rests on the perception of a fine line.
This perception shifts-shifts.
Ambiguous pluralities abound the spheres.
No quarter for rest-rest.
Anxieties infect a normative mind.
Daydream dreams exist-exist.
Until the senses fail in time.
Doubts sustained persist-persist.
History repeats itself.
A narrative of defeats-defeats.
An ego driven wandering.
Weary soldiers pondering.
A dearth of hope prolonging,
Standing backwards on a forward moving bus.
The slack- jawed tension of the mob hangs on every blank face.
There are no dreams to be had on this bus,
Just motion sickness and disappointment.
There’s no telling when we arrive at the terminal,
But it’s certain that it will be the last stop.
A thoughtful mystery unravels itself within a dirty ashtray.
Dozens of mouths and lips suck the filtered marrow of tobacco magic.
Sin after sin is displaced by denial.
They say to use the right tool for a job.
Staring at the runners and wondering why they can’t clear the hurdles.
Distance or height?
Or perhaps, they are staggered out improperly, only at intervals that would guarantee defeat.
Someone needs to set those hurdles up,
all in a row.
A race towards a tomorrow, that when reached in the present, will only be lamented for the regretted past it will become.
Burn, a blazing burn.
Stars that go quiet, must go through a period of fierce interest and catastrophe.
Then the science is applied, and sold along-side other things.