Every Nightmare That Isn't

Dithering sleeps and ill-paced mornings, oh delight
after daylight pronounces a defeated weakness;
why do these misplaced disciplines choke and become sour?
I'm drenched in disconnected bitterness, fermented
with a great intellectual hatred (the worst).

The steps are over graded and long,
feeding the penance of souls tangible failures,
witnessed by the earthly, and
reckoned alone –
loud fear in the dark simply ignored.

I’ve denied plain injustice, and grown
comfortable with the inequity, as
I swing against the wind, listening to
a deafening whistle, the best
intentions hidden;
I’m prepared for the fall, wondering:
"Is the ground really there at all?"

Intuition demands the release of untied strings, this
sacred human disguise betrayed, belied by its own fragility;
braced for treacherous impact notwithstanding:
I invite you to suffer
the man-made surfaces that transform.