Maze to Maze

“Nothing Even Matters,” my dove! We perish, wailing love—

fully distraught and sailing music. I capture every glance,

a shattered screen, a vibrant mirror. It’s surreal, a

broken family—hiding addiction. We tip a toe in flaming

sulfur; and father took his last drank. But lie to life: a

child excited for love, and vacant for pain. What a dream,

and what a myth; for we die nudging God. So much

sodium—flooding arteries; and we laugh—a mouth full of

grease. But I love you, afraid to intervene, for love accepts

the damndest. Yet, speak of suns and velvet vines, where art

and life extends the pain. Indeed, I rave and rant to read a

prose—to fill a word—a phrase of woes. So write and die a

wealth of trials, and bend a soul—the warmth of Christ; for

nib to ink a world of angst—to jot and cry, a phantom faint.

My muse and star—an endless scar, ajar for life—a tragic

bar. And feel a page, honor thin—alive and dead—to love again.