Subphelonia

This comic outlook on the take, split relief from
subtle moments when the wire doesn’t make the
sense it should – I stall my innards in the hopes
the rope resists them but the cold reaction breaks
the self in half, it couldn’t cope by simply having
to endure the cuts I did, or stand in place of
imperfection held together by the biding of uncertain
time to rid this conscience of; a tonic virtue doesn’t
miss, or vice enticing to the hit and shot in full –
a subsequential part of nature past the aspect of
its cruel example made, of the self as much as
anything this strangle-held to blame, an old crime for.