On a daily
sliding scale,
where are you found?
Which statistic is speaking
at the direction of a finger’s assertion?
Now as it wavers in air,
dwindling to the side
of a sliding scale,
where are you?
On a daily
mounting dosage,
what sector of mind talks?
In reoccurring conversation flow,
a distance transforms the self and its killer,
placing the latter at center focus
as the former is escorted off,
restrained for examination,
picked apart.
On a daily
slipping grasp,
how do you balance?
When the edge is excavated,
scraped off by a scalpel’s ill intent,
do you collapse for more?
Perhaps seek another
ready ledge to cling
and breathe.
On a daily
concluding scene,
have the credits rolled?
Scrolling through insomnia’s throes
in the decaying glow of an opened window,
has an escape route been uncovered?
Does it flash in memory?
Still it drags on,
repeating.
On a daily
sinking story,
what will bail you out?
The buckets have holes drilled in.
The savior’s been tossed off to drift,
and his gift was only a sour taste
that lingers on the tongue
and deeply drops
a sliding scale.
( ❤ Mitch)
The Works of Mitch Worden 