Trigger

Rigged like a trend, the sense’s trigger pulled back-- at attention standing with cryptic diligence. Staged with patience, but if pushed to the end, the internal atom will morph again. Like half screen lit, or illusive science with contrived mix, blended two parts ignition and one portion saccharine. Felt the flood rise as tolerance spent, and this torrent rain pouring acids of a new name. Brushing away idealic identity from skin, until uproaring countenance spins consciousness from wrist. Another twist of emotions, like voices gathered at spindle, weaving electric conversation. If you think you know, begin assessing-- then find you are wrong. Kindness is fortitude, but yearning vindication a mortal truth. Beneath humility’s cloak, often subtle retribution grows. Crossing humanity unrighteously evokes the strangled throat, so that prejudicial tonality never brooding spoke, till awoke the waiting wisdom from under sweetest choke. And pours from mouth the nectar, your ears find contentment to know, with a taste of honey laced, on finger lingering so. And infinitely are you granted, the ambrosia of delectable things, but remain intensely zealous against movements threatening. Even on beautiful days, landscape is rigged like a trend, with sword rendering outward by peaked confession--- that your annihilation by the hands of love or reserve--- was warranted by what your heart had solicited first…