the work of the middle-ground

the work of the middle-ground,

where am I 

in the free-fall of tears of laughter,

what then, am I feasting on?

at the udder of dismay,

when I am riding on a Harley of disgust,

into a fog of intrigue?

when I am dressed in a wardrobe of frightening,

yet compelled to look into the mirror to affirm?

when physical abuse is 

unconsciously a need for friendly touch?

when humiliation is

its own form of self ascendency, 

just then spontaneously realized?

when confusion is begging me

to move to higher ground, 

as if to understand?

when chagrin is seeking directions, 

to the immediacy of a comfort zone?

when letdowns readily evaporate,

as the pour-down of revelations 

become self evident?

when fretfulness existing as a retched cough,

is soothed by an overwhelm 

of a waterfall of calm?

when the beaming of standalone humiliation 

is finally basking 

in the self-zest of titillation? 

yes, it is then,

that the work of middle ground

has finally been done . . .