Immaculate are the schematics,
but failure stalks among the details.
Measure the second hand,
mark the precise point of departure.
The lesson is nullified upon the winding of time.
Adding selfishness to subtract the joy of others,
I cannot trust even the neighbor selling lies on the bottom floor.
Operating only on the diminishing flame of insanity
as a tunnel narrows,
the light succumbing to a constricted hope.
Wave goodbye to a doomed voyage.
Accept the resignation of falling short.
Every impact leaves an irreparable dent on this sinking frame.
Sucking dry the flower of optimism bred in by foolish dreams,
it cannot be the fault of yours.
What I would do to hold and console,
allow reserves to crumble into the ash of burnt imagination,
yet trapped in the hell of purgatory may I always be found.
In each relapse to destiny’s prologue,
a flash of red hair sneaks into my eye.
In pieces scattered across fluctuating worlds,
she remains ignorant of how she reconstructs my puzzle.
Reassurance is forgotten in the blink of a condemned endeavor.
She always returns to draw color into blanks.
In every action there have been reasons to abandon,
and through experience I cannot comprehend why anyone would save me.
I only know that a second chain is growing in my depths.
In shadows of self-imposed dilemmas,
crawling from exit to entrance;
a loop straight to a runaway escape,
she always returns,
and I find new strength.
(<3 Mitch)
The Works of Mitch Worden 
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