Sestina

The Lucky One

June night, fever’s about to break.
Wouldn’t say that it’s a habit,
but it always seems to grow
from the dimly lit corners where I used to stand
thirty eight minutes before the crash.
The bane of all existence.

Never contemplated my existence
until I heard the glass break
on the same day of the stock market crash.
What, again? Starting to look like a habit.
Tripped over the night stand,
as the vein in my temple began to grow.

On the highway, entropy begins to grow.
Might just blink out of existence,
might finally understand
where we go when it’s done. Or what it means to break
away from my old habits.
Cold sweat wakes me like a lightning crash.

Over the wave’s crash
the thud in my chest begins to grow.
She is just a habit,
but not the worst in all existence.
The sweat of pensiveness is about to break,
I’m making my stand.

This surely will not stand,
my better angel’s sure to crash.
Almost time to make my break
before the grass grows
back, and revives all existence.
Salvation is such a nasty habit.

This space that I inhabit,
where the scales of justice stand,
I’m thankful for existence.
Thankful for my crash
course in applied physics. But still this restlessness grows,
and I won’t look through the cracked rearview to see the dawn break.

Looks like I finally caught a break,
or maybe it’s the hundredth time. Though the pain will grow,
I got to walk away from the crash.