Idiom

Don't think
Just feel
The twisting
Turning
Of a choice

Forming into separate veins
Of life's blood;
A clogged artery
Clenching around the heart
An attack.

Compassion becomes a
Cleverly designed pit fall
Where inside we must reside
Because we chose too;
With

A letter signed upon dotted line
Death sentence
In blue or black ink please.
Penned the document long ago,
(Will you take this man? I do. . . )

Seasons change,
Yet ever the heart yearns
Much resembling a mime
O, invisible box
Intellectually, you're not there

But, still we must finish Act III
Struggle, in vain, to get out
Falsified truth;
Idiom
Of the self.