i.
he ekes equations
from the corners of his eyes
and paints percentages
into margins of scream,
to assess against bodily balances
whilst his scales slip eastwards
and stress presses itself
to the inside of his
skin.
ii.
he breathes better theories
through a veneer
of nightly visitations
and ambles expeditions
atop the dimples
of his dilemmas...
only to over-compensate
with too much air.
iii.
his world is a grudge
that gambles with time,
rhyming his realities
with occasional indulgence...
yet his age is ascending
and his shoes shine with dust,
while his heart
keeps caressing a familiar tune.
iv.
his thrum is strength's rhythm--
his precision of thought,
that scrawls its insignia
inside cuticle's care
whilst practical problems
seek his surface--
to shriek
and nurture the need
of a serious side.
v.
his facade is firmly fixed,
to blanket the black
of an unfulfilled void
yet the miracles of his meanings
turn his burdens...
to gold.
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