Wilting

in such drowsy prospect with concrete filling my throat, I wile-away with Narcissus until belief beckons at ego’s pace to chase disgrace on wobbly knees, shaking my Etch-A-Sketch clean. Yet, messages slice across the loom to make room for conscious doom in disharmony penned across all strata of travel like a mantra pinning our climb away from soaring self-fulfillment revealed only in the pause between hasty breaths surrendered in chase as hunter or limber prey forcing that day we drive terror away from operatives determined to snap our branches.