Not it

If I knew the curve of the throw, 
the arc just before the release, 
what waited behind the hand 
or just beyond the eye's reach, 
you say it would halt the momentum, 
this present strain around us. 
 
We cannot afford the empty spaces, 
the gaps where laughter used to echo. 
Understand, I mean truly grasp it, 
overstood, standstood, a rooted knowing. 
The world tilts on that axis of loss. 
 
And there is the constant hum, 
the underover current of voices, 
listening, always listening to the sharp edges 
of opinions, the soft whispers of doubt. 
My mind, a sieve, sorting through options, 
always seeking the clearer path 
to make my own functions move forward, 
to just progress, somehow. 
 
Around you, if you truly look, 
the patterns emerge, like water seeking its level. 
Prior occasions surface, ghost lights in the periphery, 
moments easily twisted, misplaced, misunderstood. 
And you see it then, the clear, sharp truth: 
that you are being shaped, used almost, 
a tool in the careful construction 
of another person’s ascent, their self-made pedestal. 
 
Where does the sturdy thing called loyalty root itself? 
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.

rap808 beats trap soul