Better Battery

And the ebb and flow of it all,
And the woe of it all,
and it was that gray morning that
It occurred to him who was fighting who:
Who was thrusting mutiny on the other.
Nineteen years old - maybe twenty now.
(Who won?)

Moving forward in time,
Without reason or rhyme,
Feet in socks,
Socks in shoes,
He stood up.
And then sat back down.

For how could he?
How could he complain,
While under the wing,
How could he...

He couldn't.
And he didn't.
His fight, the fight of us all.

Realism, Trial #4

Trudging along to the beat of trial and error, the sweat and toil of forced experience, he raises one slender hand in protest. Silently, silently lashing out. Passively, passively calling it the wrong name. To wit: gracious.

No, no! It cannot be received. No validation where there is a deliberate skipped beat, a mistake that is not a mistake, a miss that cannot be perceived as an accident - no.

Crass and humorless. An intentional injury of reputation only, but the trial and error system cannot fail; it can only be counted as an error - a door to another trial. There is no failure inside the system; only a benevolent, albeit vicious circle.

I've erred. I discounted your thoughts, rejected your theory because of the name slapped harshly on your chest, paired with twelve years of subconscious judgement. I've attempted to strip my brain of this tag, and now I'm left with a cold counter-top of expectation.