There is a sharp drop straight off into the ocean
with one little stone to play against the waves,
and there’s only room for one to hold their stance,
so naturally we’re both clinging on the fringes.
All it takes is a shake at the waist.
Just extend a hand.
Animal instinct takes root at our bases:
Feast or fuck—the fight-or-flight dilemma,
and our wings got in a twist,
clipped by Dante’s wrist to a lower level.
There’s more value in the soil for scorched earth tactics.
Consider us the first casualties of concerted nonaggression,
the tops of these pots and pans boiling over the edges.
All it takes is a shake at the waist.
Just extend a hand.
What’s it matter when there’s nothing to lose and nothing to gain?
Sink in your teeth,
claw on the wrists,
struggle for moments of breath above the surface.
A shallow sand grave follows inside each mark that’s made,
so a fleeting grace is worth the cost.
Leave the world in pain—unloved.
We choose distress, we’re electing defeat.
Leave the world in pain—unloved.
We choose death, we’re injecting disease.
Leave the world in pain—unloved.
We choose no more, we never left that fucking rock.
( ❤ Mitch)
The Works of Mitch Worden 