Swimming Towards The Vestibule of Truth
impermanence all around you say like you’ve bought a round of drinks for friends at a party in your honor. Connect the new faces at dinner with insecurity and unrehearsed prayers, chanted quietly in mixed verse. Thirty six is the number of years you’ve traversed roads that ultimately end in a series of sloppy victories headed towards the drain of success and nerdy black eyeglasses that keep you there amongst the bottom-dwellers. I damage the image belle of the isle now flitting and flaunting a sad synchronized betty with her swim-cap making pretty gestures, crowds agog with moves even you didn’t know she had. The one sure thing getting hooked on abuse in the form promise me, take me, help me but just a little for the hurt and bottomless probabilities where plus or minus one still equals two. Beg for butterflies and the race where you hold a breath, push it out where no one can see the initial element pulling you closer to the end of the lane you call joie de vivre. A space to suffer well amongst big fish and wet lips lives right around the corner from confusion keep swimming toward the vestibule of truth where intellect takes note of four leaf clovers paving the way protected with chapstick and more of you.
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