Plummeting to a gravel road.
Cascading city on wheels.
Eighteen wheeled miscreants.
Playing heavy metal solos to the articulation of my heart.
An infinitely booming question begs…
ON what is this sense of impending doom…fed?
Arguments with tension’s gods?
Or, shall I remain ‘fetal with anxieties odds?’
Punch drunk breaks of acceptance and it’s dawn…
Amass along my daily way.
Leaving me fetal at vanities reflection.
A righteous temptress would slay such a transgression.
Yet, I am but one woman.
Grasping at restless overgrown weeds with my shaky hands.
However, infantile. I am.
A victim to panic’s potion.
Often found at wit’s end.
Frequently unaware of which commotion that will set the wheels of fear…