crack is whack

  
the art of suffering
becomes a balancing act  
once you begin  
to understand that  
mediocrity  
is a desirable objective  
when posed  
comparably    
to the looming shadows  
of sleeping poppy fields-  
certain to    
foist their authority;  
autocratic in gesture,  
emblazoning a blueprint    
of forged ambiguity  
upon a flesh bound canvas    
woven together by    
the tactile essence    
of exposed vulnerability  
   
and however grueling an experience  
to sift through    
the tiny flecks of consciousness    
dusting the surface area of    
your surroundings-  
slowly separating    
pollution  
from cognizance    
rewards    
the enlightenment    
of lucidity  
to shipwrecked passengers, stranded along shore  
on an island of belief    
that we could have only been dreaming,  
to be left reeling within the warmth of foreign weather, or the comfort    
of a place to call home