Mind-Chase

“Your eyes, they speak of darkness.

Your soul, it punctures gravel.”

Anonymous

There’s a thing to vision askew: akin to lightness, where

one must return; for mind gives voice to mockery; while

souls gather at music. I must confess a restless slant:

incessant negotiation, followed by silence, plus, neatly

resumed. Each thought is a pyramid of resonance: an

avalanche of jelly, even a skyfall. So I hear you gifted

with signs; and I taste life pouring in through dopamine;

plus, wings are cherished for a time, a time in need of

further stimulation. So one more miracle, please;

wherefore, another; whereby, a future flooded with

chemicals.

We walk guitars, ever to fall into strings, a

mind afoot, akin to Speedy Gonzales. Such is the mind

of musicians: ever tipsy, leaning towards insanity, charged

by poets and psychiatrists alike. Only madness fathoms

madness, ever afoot, bricking prose, leisurely fiddling

with a piccolo.       

So catch a wind tumbling into a psyche, where instruments

rattle chains, eager to perform, grieving an orchestra. Else,

call asylums, only to hear: “He was discharged this

morning.”