It starts and ends in a cycle of turmoil,
A game of charades for you to question,
A game of charades for me to act out.
It is part of a tree,
That grew flawless till all ends.
It is part of the mighty oak tree,
With bitten dead leaves hanging.
It is happiness bottled with vinegar,
It is laughter pickled to bloody tears,
Waiting on ends for it to reform,
It is bitter and sweet at its bestest of form.
Here is your thirst quencher you ordered,
With a layer of melted ice.
Here is your sweet angel ornament you paid,
With a broken smile.
Here is the desperation of give and take of the whole wide world,
Let it burn through the epicenter of you.
Here is everything there is,
Let it flow and let it corrode your solid posture.
I,
Am the bittersweet truth disguised,
I,
Am the thorn layered between nail and skin,
I,
Am the darkest of unlighted tunnels,
And yet,
I fear the dark,
And I,
Feel the same too.
