Before The Fall

Lion! Your mane is matted red,
you've gone and mussed it up again.

Anglerfish! You are spinning circles
chasing the bob of light between your eyes.

Human! You lack the filter to decipher
what's room-ready, what's mood-groomed,

you scratch your scalp and stick out your
tongue, always the amused one, pickling

yourself in mine. Look at you, loaded
and game-faced, crooning a crooked

song to flow through those who look
for their princess in the fortress—

not comprehending brick as brick
is, mortar as clinging together,

facade of it scuffed with tartar.
Human... you fall through the same

crevasse, wide enough for two,
until you learn that flossing gets you

one blood-letting closer to the kingdom.
Always the intentional alternative,

again the move as antidote for sinking,
the perfect, the exact, the inevitable next,

the dulcet modes of persisting.  
Like sparklers spitting as you roll,

human, you cling to your twin signifiers:
honesty, and what comes before the fall.