THE FINE LINES OF DESIGN.

I’m operating at maximum capacity,
And there’s simply no wiggle room available should
A solar storm of almighty proportions hit
And overload my already shredded mettle,
Or if a seasonal affliction were stick to me
It would probably appear as severe as Lassa fever
And leave me bleeding on the inside,

And if hunger lunged at an importune moment
I fear that thirst would curse its damnable luck
And fuck me twice as fast as voracity,
Or were persons of a questionable nature
Able to attract fate’s vapour and veil their intentions
No doubt I would fall for their ruse
And be abused without power to refuse them.

All my friends are somebody else’s,
Although all my life is available for everybody’s lenses,
And I find my intentions strengthened
Even as my means have been ended expensively,
And once upon a time I had a purpose
But somewhere down the line I lost it, and what worse is
I found one yesterday in a place I’d not been for twenty years,

So it seems that the streams of my struggle
Have doubled and now bubble relentlessly
At the banks and the fences I’ve extensively erected,
And I don’t have enough fingers to fill all the holes
And even though I’d crawl naked over a whole hill of coal
To secure the purity of my goals
I fear a fire could extinguish my desires overnight.