It comes together, words as cogs and spiraling, spring-fed pistons, fastening a dissonance in dissolution to the explosive rendition; an informality unencumbered by the racketeering majority.
Prosody and metrical misalignment, a conspiracy of one, but only one? Blistered fingertips, callous, unscathed, feel naught but the insensitivity of aloofness - no longer needed, no longer heard amidst the repetitive drive. From start to perceived finish, a single runner, marathoning to the utmost end, breaking the rope set still by the same hands that started the descent.
This isn't meant to be heard, nor understood, he thinks. Lyrical if only because of its obscurity, he hopes. Written only so it's there when so much has passed without fill, he knows.
Oppressed by a lack of oppression. When life's this good, what's left but a confession...
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