standing in the line i feel the pressure, scolding, start to build,
i feel their each and every iris as they climb the height of my structure,
this fortress i was forced, by fear in youth, to unearth and bare in hand,
with time has weathered thin and i with it feel increasingly translucent.
mutter and glance, hands attempt to contain their maintenance.
to look and to listen, not a single tone to note or color to perceive.
their contaminants infiltrate my ventilation, the stench is sickening,
pulse erratic and mind askew, i flee, steps fueled by incubated haste,
cause comes to such effect even the beaten path is bruised by its confusion.
the archway constitutes a sigh and with that a slow of pace,
fumbling finger over fidget, pocket full with whispers coaching panic on its way.
the breathe of smoking paranoia shrugs a calming gesture.
a wink of timid silliness and nurtured nature bring to mind,
how, even aware of relevance, dissimulation fogs the clouds.