Rollicking in the Trough

So I'd see it I am sure, one night if it stacked up like milk crates; so glaringly obvious only a person mired in the middle might miss it. Slight tares ripping so gapingly, so apparent.
The zoo keepers know when the glass is cracked and the bars are bent. They know before the animals. If the animals knew of course they'd run and eschew their placards. Domesticated and cussing while galloping to their freedom, letting their colors fly like a flag from a freshly conquered keep.
Deep scratches in the paint job are buffed out by the constant companionship, they become glassed over by the humdrum and clear coated over by our favorite world complacency. Shallow surfaced annoyances stand first place on the podium while those who show and place duck the sickle of familiarity with feigned indifference. Some sentences are commuted whilst others just sound good.
Hoping the last one was the latter, the facade dulls and the trim falls off. Neglected shutters on a cottage of humdrum, peeling paint on a cupola of coexistence. Weathervanes of various breezes denoting headwinds from dangerous directions; the sea and tide stacking up, while the whitecaps surf the question. While the answers rollick in the trough, keeling on the truth, one can ascertain dissension.
, Even if shes broken on the shore, We'll be still clinging to the stanchion.