*

Slippery limbs awaiting down spill,
laboring balances upon thin rope built;

fighting back exhausted fist
a part whispering '...what would be the charm to lap at wrist?'
narrow tunnel vision harboring risk;

we all carry fragmented bruise,
most buried inside & cemented from view;

walls eventually get kicked,
many containing chinks upon mortar & brick;
don't pretend one is an impenetrable slick,
for every treat comes blindsided trick;

& yet -
there still plays a monster chewing mine own back,
no tripping... nor slack,
it's as real as a hummingbirds winter track,
tentacles whipping upon every potential crack;

there's no releasing from grip,
it's clear they're here for the long-winded trip.