When to Abort
Trickling thoughts evade the stares
While making their way to the basement
Regurgitated spots stain the lenses of my soul, and
I blindly follow downstairs.
My course pushed forward according to mood
Spotted glasses or not
Control is not on my side, nor in my pocket.
I am thwarted by clarity
A type unseen by those who would rather have spots
Trickling thoughts sift through the spots
In hopes of wiping them clean.