All my insurance on chesspieces lets greasy Lead feces stain with their weight and their filthiness. As though it's an act of God to be shit upon. At any moment the climb turns. And you're falling down but still aware of the handles you're passing up. It's a strange paradigm shift, to be lifted up by a subtle inuendo, Only to crash again When her brash defense cripples every sense of self-sustanance. But I'm wealthy in my own indiscriminate choices in females to fancy. When they dance with me, my feet seem to treat the ground as an already vanquished enemy. So I'm to blame, you see for tolerating all those months of second thoughts, Because when the shelf collapses the knick-knacks break and the fragments are raked into piles of rotting insect corpses. Of course it's so simple! With a second of hindsight the light illuminates the nights of diluted fate. But I'd rather not see them right now. I'd rather live up in the rafters with bats or with the shafts of spotlight that pierce through the night to highlight one lonely form on the stage before the dawn breaks in through open curtains, and it finally is certain that this all is just interpretive dancing through the hurt. So often we shirk any realizations that pain can be dulled by infatuation. Alas, alas, the beams are cracked and give out at their grain at her final refrain. And the stage is collapsed And I fear I'll relapse into helping her back to her feet. That would be a repeat of how I got here.