So
hectic this vice, to roar through cities, fingers filled with ashtrays. I chant
for wealth, to strike a cigar, smoke oozing from nostrils. I think for a glass,
ever one glass, and ever one dream. The freeway is silent, at seventy miles per
hour, lost for seconds before an exit. I’m here again, challenged for vision,
ignoring repetition. We’re assiduous, ever in this study, delving into psychic
rivers; where I see for silence, a sightless vision, poking at pixels. It’s
grand this way, to war with self, a game of Ping-pong. If not the music,
vaguely terrified, to digitize a symphony; and three visions shy; and it’s ever
this vision. I’m found for moments, scratching at dreams, to bend a fence. It’s
ever a childhood, ten years into a psyche, lost at twelve. We argue for justice,
to overlook demons, raging over nonsense. Life is hectic this way, to bypass an
elephant, in exchange for a gnat. I’m more for thirty years in, building
blocks, to excavate a nightmare. I’m past for age, ever distorted, to microwave
a feeling. There’s much to ignore, to scribble a thought, to x-ray self; and we
clash, to pass as normal, “Where it’s different here.”
I
glide through—a steady traffic, to pause at a red light. Birds are soaring,
ever a freedom, a sight to mimic. I think of thoughts, and lavish dreams, to
war a curse. It was ever a soul, twisted with liquor, to whistle a spell. I
felt to love, to mix for media, to crave a minx. We flew for good, lost for
bad, sorely enchanted. Walls shattered, to surface truth, a world of lies;
where all is fury, a pool of cries, and he-said-she-said. I disappeared, to
mimic birds, to form for lightning; and still for grays, a tinted soul, running
towards mirrors.
