I can’t help being lost within the passing trust of thundering strides and blinding weaves of crip-colored stripes.

The remains of warfare left split-decided and two-sided reside just down the hall of my consequential thirst for the unreasoned fulfilments of mankind. Each wooden shape of the panel remains in a seemingly forever stuck position. Left cracked open, tight locks screwed off from punishment, doors shoved on the knob to replace a few. 

Teeth full of gold, candy eyes, pages twirl in a circus-like cadence. The intoxicated magic of impulse coincides with the desperate insomnia of a candle-lit hallway.

The windows that glance outside of the claustrophobic, wooden rectangles of panels and look out into a streak of thundering stripes and blinding weaves of crip-colored stripes. At the bottom remains clothes of crystals and mattresses of gold thrown out from a trust once cherished.

Everything remains in no man’s land.

Shellshocked between what once was and what is, the vandalized broken glass always remains cracked open for a fire exit just in certain cases. Leaving a shape of text to flip through pages, my eyesight can never correlate a distance between the spacing and the lines between. 

No man’s land runs rampant through an open field of peace and honesty, keeping a neutral balance between all things necessary. A nostalgic look beckons the infrared aging of the inconsistent buzz. 

An ambient noise floods the halls breaking the silence that has lasted forever. The sound isn’t bolstering, but it emphasizes an interval in all things necessary.

A long-listed record of bulls killing matadors, pins threading yarn, and unopened polluted containers sit quietly at a foot of the space in between all. Gazing from left to right, a site of noxious occurrences keeps a growth faster than the other things reasoning its balance.

A balance in between all.

This was necessary from the very beginning, but the space chose to ignore and keep a free mind in hopes of flourishing, but the record never remains the same.

Table-top spinning on a whim, a frustrated and frightened voice speaks overhead, cutting off the ambiance that previously did the cutting. A battle breaks out between the two, only happening because they were given the power to do so.

The desperate attempt for balance escapes, and so do all things necessary.

The tearing of war leaves the space less of a disconnected reality. 

Whistling with dreaded nostalgia. A constant. Something that balance so desperately hoped for. With balance, it got exactly what it wanted. 

Constraining sounds filled the space.

Applause soon follows in remembrance. A motif areas the playing field.

Balance was unable to stand on its own in a frightening world of growth and disarray. Balance was now able to break character, and return to what once was. An inconsistent rush of fleeting names and faces come closer together on each side of the balance.

Over-arching in its glory, balance levels out.

All things level out, in the space in between.