The Pretense
Petrichor is a complete vernal scent,
an ache so feral it’s filled with lightning.
Waiting for new plans to make a descent
the past seems to leave the future biting.
Plans slowly unfurl and then start to run,
a hit to the soul spiking bone marrow.
With no need to outsource to anyone,
you’re in control of your own tomorrow.
That urge to defenestrate the outgrown,
when you impel it’s a breath of fresh air.
Nervously investing in the unknown
feels a bit like that initial jump scare.
Choking on such cloying efflorescence
vestige broke in exposing my pretense.
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