Fault Lines

Sudden unbelievable stress,

Has proven too much,

For two-halves,

Of a whole.

“I-I thought I had it,”

The subsided end stammered,

Visibly panicking.

“Look at this mess you’ve made,”

Said the hanging wall,

Haranguing,

His peer.

There was much tension,

So aftershocks,

Seemed likely.

“That’s easy for you to say,”

Said the footwall,

“You’re in no position to judge,”

Feeling their grip,

Slightly budge.

“This is aggravating,”

Said the risen end,

“This is strenuous,”

Their continued harmony,

Seemed tenuous.

They continued,

To point fingers,

As one side fled,

To bury it’s head,

And the other,

Bottled it up,

For a future,

Outburst.

The Rules of Engagement

We played chicken,

Until the plot thickened,

There was some kicking,

And I was stricken,

And honestly sickened.

Then came the blowback,

And backlash,

Followed by attacks,

Without tact.

We acted,

Like brash asses,

In the pool,

But that’s no place for cruel fools,

Only honorable duels,

Which follow the rules.

Only with conviction

To consistent conventions,

Can Chicken be played.

It demands surgeon-like steady hands,

A strong stance,

And some symmetry,

Balance,

And good ground game.

Without those pieces,

The game ceases,

Animosity increases,

For no good reason.