It’s the rhyme that puts teeth in our veins—more bold than heedless poses, hidden behind the alter in a strain. A sort of monstrosity with ascents of dripping varnish, when the wind deludes with fitting excuses thrown carelessly—overlooking. Dispensed only by benighted drillings, that lost the stillness in the numb, looking up from impelling crystals, drawn from underneath. But maybe there’s a way to burnish the ravish swept away, to not alter our flourished messes. A line where shadows can meet his splendor. Where we dare to dangle the tips of our toes past the side—straddled by what exists inside. But all this earth can’t strain the holes in-between, as we worship the sirens and become submissive to the deity. Sacrificially raised up, we learned to sharpen our cuffs, but also the way into the snuff. We built walls deep in our sacred courts, and it’s not long until we get shot up. And we don’t dare let them see our thoughts that never had the courage to surmise through the dust. So we cut a little deeper, take a step further from the flickering glimpses they call light. Because between torrid edges I search for stillness in the spinning. Beyond the voided spaces they bleached over time, with the swipe of their nails and a double-edged idea blushed with a second glossy coat.

Stuck in-between we can never conceive in the shapelessness of implacable pleas. Relentless misconceptions, raised up through brazen flights, we’re told being uncertain is the wrong way to fight. To them death is more pleasing than to get slicked back in something they say is terminal, but I’d hold as boundless, heartbeats in flight. Because it’s the doubt that makes us soar, reaches down as we effortlessly fall from their sight. I’ve learned discerning is for the heathens who always assume their right. I’d rather not want what I know, but want what’s ventured beyond the sheathe. No longer conditioned by conformity, but somewhere I can prevail on both sides that run steep. I wish I could say with unblemished shame, I can’t hold the blade as the four horseman, stuck up straight, but rather slanted down—where the tip can no longer be depraved. Because I believe it’s the earth that demands redemption, not thrown out amongst our guild. Forgive me if my palled eyes can’t level out. My feet are planted, spread out with perceptions drawn down the midst because I choose to be among the few that don’t wander quietly into empty spaces, but rather venture into ambiguity. I’d rather lose myself to indulges than to heedless poses, hidden behind the alter in a strain. Because in the end we all have rhyme that puts teeth in our veins.