I am a sensitive pond. My waters are pure. My face is its own.

Trudging into the bowels of sobriety,

slipping gracefully into the captains chair in the lobbies of our minds,
slides like banana peels slip and slide,

falling repeatedly,

fishing for a find.

Pinned to the wind,

hanging,

drying on a line,

feeling left behind,

unable to rewind to a time that shined.

Passengers on the second hand race,

one click at a time,

until the end of the line.

Victims of super-hero fly by's and ignorance disguised.

Arsenals of knives, self worship, and lies.