Expectations, have a wistful shadowy aglow.
They unassumingly assist every next breath’s entry.
Bent on feeding the conscious mind’s next frame.
These are assumption’s default beyond momentum’s caring.
Expectations, are hardly from a world that has edges.
They are just the flash flood of frame-fills forthcoming
to an oh-so please-me emotional audience awaiting.
Expectation is as a monolith of an unconscious habit.
It is the loathing of the disheveled unforeseen
as the lack of forethought is miscarriage brought to life,
viewed with instinctual yet critical despise,
with the vehemence of disappointment’s ever-so droop.
Expectation is with the savage smoothness of sovereignty
as the invisible but guiding hand of hope's want,
devised as an excess of hungry, feed never ending frenzy.
Insatiation’s politically correct need for greed, is realized
as the coronation of expectation’s creed.
We all possess the inborn privacy of expectation as if,
it were our unborn twin in need of resolution as claimed.
Eventually expectation is enrolled personified monotony,
a no-hands etch-a-sketch featuring momentary deliverance.
Expectation is that sleaze of predictability gone wild.
For some, the engorgement is placidly boring.
There is a yearn for, dare I say, the unexpected to occur.
So hit me with an unseen sledge coming my way,
or an unsuspected trap door set off for my dismay.
Slap me hard, so that celebration is pain’s paradox to me.
Give me the void with no handles, no mirrors, no means.
Expectation is but a medium but never the marrow.
It is a vehicle of sensory input but not satiation’s reward.
Expectation, is the habit of an addict
dressed in the attire of an audience.
It is the tongue of a false mouth appeasing.
Let me curse expectation with spontaneity’s retorts.
Lead me to the path of blind-image blasphemy’s resolve.
Smear my awareness surfaces with profanity’s curse
for the contempt of the predicted, disrespect for the foretold.
I go down with irreverence on the expected as reward.
Insult me with unanticipated plots and desire’s unforeseen.
For expectation should exist as valued as a house pet
or as a vibrant chia-seed plant in full bloom.
But expectation, should never be,
as the guardian angel to my essential needs . . .