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ridden with the nauseating awe that is perception
summed up in the quiver of a tightening face
one that must be smitten with a sour, unpleasant feeling
but there’s something gold concealed in the pensive motion of your pace
to and fro, much greater than a mope
you see the flashes dance in and out of your feeling-space
rashly revolving around the heart

in temperance a dash of reason dissolves into hope
but we immerse ourselves in excess and the water doesn’t hold
no objective sight ascends from a mere lump in the throat
you just move headlong into the tailspin your questions evoke

you just groove and tremble with the sullen mood
you are the epitome of pathos
you are a world of profound blues
your gut has gathered every absurdity you know
ridden with the nauseating awe that threatens to swallow you whole
and drives weariness into the longing that urges on this glow
in suspense, you wait for either a blade or a box with a bow

and either way you feel that home is distant
even as you restlessly wander within it
always ponderous in the lulls of passing minutes
always dreaming of a place to go that’s sadly non-existent

--Michael Clanton