(shiver alacrity)

My brain is the match in a wax museum, doused in gasoline and tired of questioning the tight-lipped tenor of the crowd (the same ones standing, staring again and again at the dead rendered population).

And the question remains, do i burn it all to the ground?

Do i light myself and burn out in the grey morning of another thursday knowing there's a world out there with more to lose and a woman who'd call me incredible in the soft terror of accusation?

Or do i hold fast to my sulphurous light? do i keep my threat a secret until i'm ready to face my time clean-shaven and unafraid of the consequences of my inevitable acts?

We're not talking finality today. nothing grim in these swollen skies. we're talking the potential i can remember sometimes when my head clears and i rise tall and ready to eat the fucking air.