Regression.

Solidity slain where the hollow remains

midground pain as smiles in vain

undeserved aims while chaotically lain

constantly un-Abel, I'm always Cain

killing the able thats deep in the brain

dug holes reclaimed from the graves deeply ingrained

home is where the heart is, it's why I'm living in shame. 

The runaround.

 

Side to the behind where the lies silently chime

from where I should be blind, if not for my circling mind

writing signs to stay mine amidst the actions of mimes

pulling the rope to spin me round as I'm drawing the lines

to revolve the spiralling design of an upward decline

spilling the rhymes, of what was always, inwardly entwined.

The run around.

An unoccupied space placed in every direction faced

mapless, hapless, relentless pursuit of a frame fully encased

the seeker of the smile where time is weighed in miles

and flowers wither to die, next to the empty vase.