The Corkboard

Slowly but inevitably;
Debacles that insulted them are occuring to me.
It seems passe to stand firmly on a single plate.
Without a spine rattling with a regular quake.

Wings once vibrant; they all cocooned without sound.
Ballet dancer, a terminal tango to the ground.
To live up to a deathwish, to be part of the gang-
One by one, they held a knife to their hand.

They were doomed from the start, they shall play on misfortune.
And it always seems fitting for guilt to be the weapon we use.
Self-inflicted: we are those who stand in the rain and wait for lightening.
Drawn to the flame, and then return burning.

It is a toxin:like him, it is hypnotic.
It is a disease, like him, and I have purposly caught it.
Furiously beat away forged victims, it's our tag and nobody can steal.
And nobody can take what they don't believe is real.

Sometimes it fades, it flickers; a fact I cannot stand.
Yet I loath it's essence, and I loath its demands.
And no! I promise, I hope I'm not sick at all.
I must comply. It is a dirty paramour.

We are all pinned to this corkboard with razor-sharp safety tacks.
Once you commit, deceive, loose belief-there is no going back.
If we dared pull away, our wings will tear and we would fly crookedly for a time.
Before spiralling downards and dying after a little while.