my mind is a mess,
a fist at a mirror.
in the fractured glass,
i beheld the map of madness,
a road between the worlds,
where the fault lines met,
merging into a singular,
splintered tableaux.
here within the fleeting presses of time,
i am but a zealous pact,
a wooden swimmer caught in skyscraper currents,
outmoded engines of reverie drumming fluid-dances,
sick to the surviving stones;
and in the painted whorl of uncertainty,
i raise hands to cockpit & hurry my bones.
within the opulent prison of comfort,
i disentangled the strophes of suffocation,
as the acid taste of pretension corroded my tongue,
and i became a wraith, a fleshless cipher,
hungering for the feral taste of freedom.
gazing upon my florid tableau of conditioning,
i beheld the précis of oppression,
a human-ized route of conjunctions,
where corseted breasts of banality straitjacketed
my florid outrages, as the woman noumena of tradition
pierced my retina, awakening the ordeal of outdated raillery.
in the corpse-strewn cadence of awakening,
i relished the lemon tart of liberations,
as the inferno of insurrection,
my lodged flakes slipping free,
bathed my namelessness
in ye ole dinner runner derivations.
in an apocalypse of everyday objects,
i beheld the ghastly geometry of my own entrapment,
a latticework of stifled longings
and compromising certainties.
the cocoon of aero form dreams,
i became a trout's ashes -
a swallow released from its cage,
soaring on the updrafts of my own imaginings.
within the silvered light of gratification,
i beheld the arc of my own trajectory,
a parabola of defiance,
where the chains of expectation,
once clogged with rusty determinism,
now loosened,
releasing the wind-borne delta of my symbolism.
bloody mary thrice,
she is a fake,
no one arrives.