Low tide

Ya saw,
a wide boy,
connected street dweller.
Cool as bees jam,
or an ice land.

In a roomful of high grade jokers,
false tokers,
and shit prophets,
the mask was torn,
that's when the tide went out.

Ya thought,
potential.
Though somewhat,
often,
mental.

Waxed and spat passions,
were there,
when one on one.
When someone thought to offer the drum,
the fucking tide went out.

Often blinkered,
tinkered observations,
fed occasional betters,
buzzes and thirst.

The mirror of friend,
lover,
colleague,
and stranger,
creeps into dangerous view.


That's the cue for you know what.