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Deadlines.

Braving the rapids,
approaching in time
— pedal to the metal,
ticking tempo rising —
a great fall
if it comes to failure
at mastering flight
by the time the plot to plow
the path falls away,

dead into the void, scattering
in liquid chards, abandoning us,
forcing us to grow the fuck up
on our own and bear

the terror of the unknown
with a serious playfulness
driven by curiosity
fueled by our questions,
boiling over with ideas
itching for application

if only on a crash course
with concrete,
always in service
to their next incarnation.

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