Like a thespian cradled by the characters he once thought were beneath him;
tricked under the spell of growth like a blanket
fixated upon mommy and daddy's promises.
He is a walking antique
and a museum of fear
dressed in neon;
wounds put out on display
treated like quirks or personality;
like a classic car show,
which paints his sleeve, as a throbbing gash
of unwarranted company by ghosts seeping through cigarette smoke.
At nights he cradles himself close to grain elevators
in hopes to get stuck inside of an escape
to look back on with pride.
These are the times where we fail to realize
our days don't just go back to the way trees take root,
rising to the occasion of one's singular truth.
Well,
sometimes 'too little, too late' is just the right time
but also where we go from here,
depends on your take on mindless chance.
Timing is everything in the grand scheme of going for what's yours.
But I'm not grandiose enough to say what belongs to me
in the first place anyway.
So,
I'll let them come as they are
then eating myself alive
in the secrecy of my own shadow.
©tabsa203
T