A rift, a restraint.

Blur.
Like vision not magnified by lenses.
Aligned, yet paralleled.

A rift, if crossed, either uncertainty or detriment awaits.

Of paramount restraint, when pressed, not flippant to give in to primal urge, that’s crude.
Of stillness, when pressed, if not, stoic.
Of frustration, in hefty, governed by futile outcomes, yet a flash of simple happy disposition.

Admirable things.
For mine is wearing thin, holding it in.