Torturing you with words of uncertainty on the horizon:
the positive and negative structures of your world combine.
Losing your mind to Shostakovich's piano concerto #6,
you find you're falling from grace yet again.
And through the barbed wire fences surrounding you
you see the withered blackened grass and are happy.
Due to, or possibly in spite of, your oleander dreams of decadence,
you fail at grasping the fragile incompetence of roses to cry.
Cuts lacing your palms leave memories to be analyzed
and syllables to be written on blue and pink lines.
Yet when your hair thins from your twirling of it,
and you head leaks blood from the constant bashing, you taste caramel.
Swooping down to gouge out dreams and destroy them,
eagles sniff out their eternally hopeful prey.
Smelling the opium in the distant lands of dust and sand,
you dance in circles of mushroom caps and fairies.
Running thirsty fingers over a trees withered bark,
you open your mouth for acidic sanguine cloud tears.
Quilts flying through the air to a recollection beyond dinosaurs,
you try to be completed with a misshapen puzzle piece.
Write me down, you sing to the sky in its oblivious splendor,
I want to look like a disfigurement of the flesh of mortality.
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