Inconsistency

Commonality for me, can easily be confused with love and as if reassurance are never too real, consistency of inconsistence is all to prevailing. As if the engagement of the mind is much more than a relation of that of convenience. I confess my flaw, alas it’s true! I act due to convenience and efficiency, productivity, and all other factors that should not be considered at all when looked upon this certainty. The flavor in which one exhumes is sometimes too euphoric to resist. No matter the acidity of its cause. There in the corner, what do you find? A fine petal to where there is neither begging nor end, a ribbon of sorts that cannot be cut nor folded; and never ending as it seems to be. So let it be, let it flow, follow where ever it may lead. For, ultimate transcendence or utter demise, a choice you alone to make which path to follow in this savage garden of sorts. Oh sweet release a rapture only too contrive. Save me nothing, remember? The aroma and odor of a flower is as biting and inviting so sweet as if to meet that of a gait, that of a stare, and that of a smile. NOTHING! Why? Why is it that I cannot think of anything? I value none but my own yes? What is a catalyst of sorts, some prevalent epidemic that causes my mind to soul to delve into a spiraling darkness and into the belly of the beast? A flirt. A flaunt of the dancing flora of this illustrious adamant atrophy. Habitual it seems this preternatural existence that sleeps within me. Haven ward it looks on blank and absent, it seems its eyes. A collective transgression that devolve as it advances. As if a poisonous vine of thorns surround and engulf me to be taken into nowhere. Habitual it seems, as it wreathes, twisting and meandering all around—growing, groaning with in me. In likeness of a moth to a flame.

Why is it that my eyes refuse to tear? I see my demise as clear as it has never been, and here I am, smiling. I smile if through it all everything will happen to it own as if it was to the accordance of fate itself. Such hypocrisy and naïveté is maddening. Always unfinished and incomplete—never willing to dive into the unknown with eyes fully closed.