Distortion

We are born into an approximation:
shifting dunes and waning tides

We flail and clutch at effervesences:
assumptions from misconception;
presumptions from misinformation

What a prickly garden!

Our eyes and ears fail us;
it's a grimy window,
covered in opaque layer
of thick and viscuous fat

that slides and blocks our view,
like the tall crowd at a concert

Give me a chair!
Help me to see what's gong on,
before I embarrass myself further;
belch out the wrong lyrics;
wear the wrong style;
bring the wrong dish....

Someone polish that glass!

I need to know how not to
laugh, when I should cry;
give at a time to hold;
die, when I should live or

kiss, when I should say no; or
cower in a trembling fear
when it's perfectly safe to go