Art by Marina Iks

Rhyme of the fizzles

It comes with zero caveats;

incorrigible,

abrasive,

ripping my soul apart.

“You pick your own battles”

I concurred then. I laugh now.

Where was the herald?

The beacon, the signs?

It’ll make a fine story,

getting caught on the hop.

An unrehearsed dance,

stumbles and wounds,

Frayed combat jackets,

and a stifled body beneath it.