It’s
akin to frenzy, a soaring torch, a meter gone haywire.
I
was there—grandiose—a mind of riches. It’s an
overload,
a speaking credenza, a cedar-chest of dreams.
It’s
a pendant with a voice, studded in ghosts, a
quadruped.
I woke for days, a walking armoire, to touch
for
madness. Someone whispered—a neighbor’s cry,
straddled
with paranoia. It’s a primitive brain, harnessed
by
reason, where logic sits in abeyance. I colored cities,
to
trek for miles, to pause at all night clubs. A sun would
rise,
a moon would fall, chatting with winds. I lost to
win,
the wins of lost, knitting with a pen. Love is
pliable,
to witness for insanity, an incomplete thought.
Everyone
is labeled, in need of pills, drilling into a psyche.
Someone
gallops, to flood a life, a soul for mirrors. I
screamed
for light, to vanquish night, for hell to unleash.
Someone
arose, set for war, a sore for destruction. Earth
was
painted—in eight dimensions—parted by demons.
For
some, mania is like a brother, urging, even demanding
for
presence. Plus, it has a sister named hypomania. She
appears
in spurts. We watch her, digging into trenches,
zipping
us through portals. We often love her, aware of
her
big brother, who races through social dimensions. It’s
rarely
sudden. We watch it creeping to a crescendo. It
peaks,
vibrating, as luminous as sunrays. I regard a man
glowing
in stillness, peering into a forged reality,
scratching
at patches of illusions. He drifts, longing for
closure,
embarrassed for faux pas. It’s a type of shame,
where
we account for vagueness, chunking gavels at a mirror.
Some
forgive—never to let it go, where others opt for
absence.
In part, it’s manageable; a world permeated with
colors.
We speak of a nocturne ghost: dearly aloof, wrapped
in
energy, a type of primal intelligence; but it grows, to
elevate
consciousness, sculpting for a portrait. “Draw me,” it
says;
“Write about me.”
