Not it again

If I knew the us of the just
Judging time  
Losing us
the arc just before the release, 
Of a clue signifying who
what waited behind theplan
or just beyond the eye's reach, 
you say it would halt the momentum, 
this present strain around us. 
Vacancy in manys of places
We cannot afford the empty spaces,
Once we can afford yah as one in California
Cant afford to lose anymore people 
Cant afford to lose what I got left 
Too many goodbyes to much dept
Don't judge don't label
If you're still here 
Don't  walk out to
Cant afford to lose you
the gaps where laughter used 
Understand, I mean truly grasp it, 
overstood, stand stood, a rooted knowing. 
It's not behind me,
The world tilts on that axis of loss. 
And there is the constant voices, 
listening, always listening to the heard 
of opinions, the whispers of doubt. 
Though for certain stood on lies
Thural the  mind didn't say you knew who I was
Not not for any to 
mind, sorting through options, 
always seeking the clearer path  for yourself 
to make myself stop 
 
Around you, if you truly look, 
the patterns emerge, like water seeking its level. 
Prior occasions surface,  in the periphery, 
moments easily twisted, misplaced, misunderstood. 
And you see it then, the clear, double on the molds of comprehension 
that you are being shaped, used almost, 
Know now most of are leaving 
a tool in another person’s ascent, their self-made pedestal. 
 
Where does the sturdy thing called loyalty root itself? 
Is it, just for the self,
It seems to shift, a desert bloom in a sudden storm, 
changing shape as righteousness itself bends. 
This constant flux, this ethical tightrope walk, 
this swirling confusion of right and less-than-right, 
this is precisely the bedrock, the solid reason 
I find myself suggesting a pause, a deep breath, 
a quiet recalculation before the next pitch is thrown. 
 
The weight of unknowing is heavy, 
a cloak woven from might-have-beens 
and what-ifs that sting like dry air. 
If only the trajectory were mapped, 
if the consequence of every action 
was not a mystery unfolding in real time, 
perhaps the tension in the shoulders would ease, 
and the fear of the next unavoidable impact 
would soften its grip on the turning world. 
But we stand here, perpetually guessing the wind, 
hoping the best intentions land softly.

trap soul 808