this may not be possible
in the audience of a self-absorbing face
possibility has a bitter aftertaste
and the impossible is a warm blanket with hot chocolate

a tender balalaika toll follows me home
through the outstretched spines of birch mates
where each step is a chance to mingle fates
before letting the shoe drop onto the shit of nonexistence

bent over a defeated makeup mirror, reciting rhymes
will the day bring the clarity of a beautiful mind
and if not, will it at least be kind
as it steals another destined moment from a coffee-stained book of dreams