Manufacturing the Call

How can I say,
the lust of hope
amplifies.

Besmirched
by nervous
anger

and fit to
unravel
the tightly-tied

party line,
my parchment
extends its hand.

Smoldering fingers
rake the back of
my neck.

Abandoning
this web of warmth
and my abeyance

requires me to
sit a while longer.
Until again

it is time to leave
the ones I love,
following blindly

the plan laid out
for me, rather sure
this is for me—

how else
would I be able to
abandon, abandon, abandon.