never even

There it is. My shadow and the territory it demonstrates, all I see is that unfortunate agonists of everything but me. Although it exists only as an afterthought of my choices, I can't help wonder why I am drawn to the drowning of the hapless hoppers. But what is that which is ready to be no longer a second glance? My first thought and their last word are these interrelated interrogations. Who pleads on the behalf of the beholden Beatrice of no one? Who finds the flattery in a fawning pariah? In my gut, their eyes have already demonstrated the great Division and I, with grand demonstrative denial, push nothing aside that will bring about my subtle settling in this moment of the sacred. Who isn't scared that hasn't shone brighter than burnt out misleadings? I may lead an invisible concubine with untraceable Danes and in such ruffians find the oft-disappointed offering of a wonderful place won to the wrong team. Or the right teeming of those truths we all seek and I am meek to have them. Because I cannot. Or, fear not an attempt but a failure. So I am lured back here again, desperate in those populous polls of palls and palindromes, where stars sees rats and I am never even.

Never am I.