Plain Insanity

I’m not to call it, plain insanity, this roller coaster, this spectrum that’s widening; this little person, to conjure ghosts, this woman afraid of mirrors; to write forever, this no- change excitement, those woes by lights his souls. I crawled to heaven, as sick as madness, to greet this phoenix: that casual grin, those moments in hell—that aloof—“I needs”; to picture for perfect, this imperfect measure—a mother as a serious addict. I died your arms, to claim exclusive, this inner fool; where hours were passion, lost in ecstasy, to give him what I couldn’t reach: this force of souls, as drifting that heartbeat, to exclaim the mediocre. I disappeared, this man to journeys, as to arrive at truths; to tell her plainly—“You burned a spirit”—to receive ostracism. It couldn’t be real, this fool to measures, this man that doesn’t see; so more to acting, this thing of serfs, as to realize he couldn’t care: this deep affect, while hassled in brains, to wonder of love; but more to swans, at tears to see, this perfect society; this city phantom, at woes with love, to see pure infection; where fools protect, this vile creature, at needs for mercy. I called a Ghost, while deep in hells, to binge by way of catastrophes; this little person, wooing his soul, to retreat in anger; to see it younger, pictured in chaos—this woman beyond comatose. I could but grieve, as painted in deaths—this furious response. Our world was dolls, this image of love, as to see a face beaming with demons; to hear it over, that once again—“Why aren’t you talking”; or more to place, this wealth of violence—“I love you.” It sickens our guts, this changeable force, to meet several women a day; this one person, fueled for destruction, pretending that the world is blind. I wanted more, this swan as jewels, to realize—she shall persevere. It burdens life, to see it not, this crooked thing as normal; where good is wrong, as bad is good, as to laugh at an outer force; this thing within, to touch for souls, as surfing through dimensions. We sang a song, this old folklore, as to pretend a good meal speaks of families: that crying ache; this repeated life; this woman bent on the privacy of addicts. I must retreat, as to signal with purpose, this dying ruse!