We run, and when we reach the corner it is there.
We turn around and head back to the place of safety.
What is safety; it doesn’t exist; in shirts, pants, dresses,
coats, hats, cars, radios, bikes, tires, perfume, cologne,
powder, sex, drugs, food, drinks, books, movies, money,
credit cards, houses, or trips. Real safety has hidden itself.
We have sworn not to conform, so we keep running. However, it’s there, right beside us. Maybe it has a hold on us or its navigation system is linked to ours. There’s no truth in what it desires. Understanding the pitfalls, and the strange shadows that hovers; it begins to weaken us, as it reveals its cover.
Gawking at the intended aftermath we begin to notice
a foul smell, and a flesh textured opening. It’s huge and
strong, obnoxious and bold. There’s a pride bank sitting
at its center. Too strong for words, and parked around a
life, its energy is derived from a sinful house. Our head is
indeed in the beast’s mouth.