There exists a small rumbling buried
in the pit of my stomach,
a tiny quake that threatens
the fault line I have so carelessly,
but carefully,
built myself worth upon.
Tremors continue to shudder
and buffer the monuments
to ego and id.
They quiver in time,
beat upon beat upon beat
of the burgeoning downfall
that stacks upon itself,
clawing upwards through
that fissure,
a desperate behemoth
striving to be born into the light
of day,
overtaking as is want.
Cracks,
subtle as the edge of shadow,
spread forked, like lighting
over worn facia
and I can only stare,
rooted,
in knowledge that this tower
was always destined to
crumble
from that initial brick.