A Dog in Waiting

I always seem to get caught, on an open stretch of road and as the distant trees turn slowly and the world spins on it axis, perception seems to indicate that the world revolves around me and perhaps I can be forgiven, if this is nothing more than childish remembrances, too many trips spent looking out the back seat window, upside down and backwards, or, as has been observed clinically, an overbearing sense of self importance, and yet there I was again, wondering what I wanted, when clearly what you want should be more important to me while base shame, my beloved compatriot, you lie, a dog in waiting, forever willing to console and mortify with contractual servitude and a litany of offenses at the ready, you take charge and the trial begins, I standing in for any or all witnesses, charging ill-will and selfish certitude, when nothing in heaven and earth has been certain since time was invented to obscure the real reasons the world tips between this realm and that, drunken and enraged, but for no reason that I can perceive, this is the curse, perhaps, and nothing availed leaves nothing accomplished, much less attempted and again the pendulum re-invigorates my senses as I'm forced to duck and weave, the doing awaking nothing less than a full reversal and my own anger explodes in it's vacuum soundless, ineffective and rendered sterile in a blinding flash and, oh, there's my exit.