phear

midnight is doused in a fit of fever.
palms grip for what looks to be the light ahead.
slight grasp holding onto doubt
yet wanting to discover truths untold.

veins pulsed, heavy weight unfolds
abound knowledge rationed for the weak and timid.
rabid dogs scathing the owner's leash,
teeth snarled and paws frightful;
the fight is real. the fright is to feel.

suddenly the distance is no longer so distant.
what has so long been sought after becomes unraveled.
there is no rug, only threads woven by
a creator underneath the guise of creation.
melt. smoke. ash. breath.

confusion is alive and well
in the land of misfits and jesters.
blood like water, spilling out of cups,
which then breaks frail backs, like dreams
do crumble, and slowly fade away.

spinning into the guided obvious
are our cries of hope and despair.
one by one we walk along the path of
unrighteous pets, gallivanting in front
of an audience who has the choice to either
stop and stare, or mumble on with eyes sewn shut.

passion begins with a smile
and ends with a sigh.
it has been said, and it shall be spoken again,
and again,
and again.

the clock stops at the stroke of one.
an hour gone, or twenty three more to go.
like those who watch, our perception is all choice.
serenity may be a thought,
but prison gates have keys, too.