you are the bottom to my pit.

Like dominos,
we fall.
A delicate balance.
Gone.
Rectangles of aspirations,
trapped in a downward spiral.
A white palette,
tinged with dots of desperation.
But our fate
was not predetermined.
Our destiny,
dripping like scarlet
from our self-righteous hands.
And the rungs to
our ladder,
have long since rotted.
All that remains
the musty stench of
decomposing delusions.
Our future,
no longer a question.
But an emminent answer
that only circumnavigates.
Yet the irony in it all?
We pushed the first one.