nothing up top

promises are just virtues
wrapped up in a vice
locked away inside the
wisdom, or perhaps
it is folly of a
laugh at the absurdity
of permanence or
justification or a life
that could be better,
if better has a definition
if only so much as it is
looking in, or is it looking out
or back in through a window
with frost climbing like spider webs
from the corners of impropriety
like intermissions in existentialism
and the eight second pause where
the story is told in a reality
of what exactly a future of
supposition in surrender
on a sandbar at the
end of a river
we both know
carves out
the banks
of where
we are
at.