the soul noose grows braited and taught,
a shroud-lain pretension that was wound with the sun
it prowled in when your attention was on survival
some people know how to play that game,
yes they do....
distract you with weaves and angelic catechisms,
then writhe in and wrap themselves around your essentia,
tighter than the buttresses rammed up against a walled jewel
why do some feel so compelled to harness and trap,
engage and transact the devoutly unblemished?
do the brooders shine with a special beacon of naiveté?
a radical spectrum of fractured narcissism?
or do those preyers long for satisfaction silked and delished,
the feasting off the clumsy thrashings of a novice pundit?
who's only recourse is to dive off the edge of balance,
the right-laid braid snapping, severing, braying
all recognition of delight
some people know how to play this game