How many are the shades
of dismantle and recovery
in the human heart?

What lengths, what brevity do
these features seek to transpose
themselves and tear the very bit
of what we have left to fight with?

I imagined a triumphant upbringing
of my self before my old self,
standing tall and taking no shit,
but here I am chock full of trouble,
wading inside a lonely pool of confusion.

What lengths must the heart
achieve to withstand a new semblance?
Where is the safe harbor hidden?

Tastes that last and tortured thoughts
that forego any avenue of originality
transpire to cause me strife in this
hour of an evening now measured in sadness.

Sensory perception from across a small
universe reaches out to me and asks if
I'm alright. I might be broken beyond my
own belief, but I will last the eve;
carry myself into tomorrow somehow and stand.