To be enthralled in a world
where fantasy is the master,
not the figment; the voice of the secretive soul.
Latched with its own rigid rules,
and risky rides on roaring rounds.
This world of thieves
where magnificient miracles are merely routine,
where a living life values down to nullity,
a drop in the omnipotent ocean to serve a sweltering soul
whose need for blood is bloody and belligerent.
A little like a lunatic, lover of the life-crunching
where the killing substance lies in the venom of the heart
not the venom vulturing its taste
before which, life is insignificant.
One would wake wondorously in a wanton world -
in both the venom-tongued and the venom-blooded -
infected with motled knots clogging the chamber of the soul;
momentarily mum, with new notes of self-ideas.
Isn't it funny, though,
how fantasy lurks in the tense tornado of this world,
around every edging corner, waiting for your turn?
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