The melody of melancholy
Madness wears a canopy of constellations, holding my witness spellbound.
Ghosts of loss invade my pounding heart;
I realize too before my time that life is made of big hearts
and unutterably intimate moments.
Fear evicts the evolution of a deeper call.
Opening flowers give audience to the cult of indifference.
The Held of Hell perpetually bloom,
never knowing freedom hides within their own beauty.
Reach out not to what thou are not,
for this is Forbidden Fruit.
Rather, reach in to what thou art, for there, I AM.
Poor excuse for a ritual,
Confessionally worrying ourselves into graves of
universal rote,
learning all there is to know about heroic self-unfaithfulness.
When did the Individuality Imitation become the pungent god-crumb of the psyche?
Elegant irony, the past cannot trespass a goal.
Broken rings of light fill the asylums;
inarticulate suspicions dominate the halls of upper academia.
Tyrannized by the ‘normal’, drunk on textbooks.
I abort the hypocrisy of their disbelief and become
the most sacred of sinners.
See those whom have harmed you?
Invisible walls?
First sponge painting dampened with my ghetto tears.
Waxed eloquent in selfishness,
The Propaganda of Paradigms dissociates the Art of Unexpectation.
I am not a bad person because I cannot save myself.
By what name is this poem-child known?
Arteries are columns of elegy.
Paragraph expands for vain explanations.
Tamable Haikus wear uncontainable lightning bolts smiles.
Time to drag out the hypodermic and bring on the Thorazine Shuffle.
The mind always has been the vulture of the heart.
Acoustic Echoes.
Were they just dragonflies fluttering in my eyes?
Where did I go?
Moat.
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