It Is

It is life, coming to a screeching halt.

It is a growing sensation of numbness
That stills and readies me for what's next.

It is only deep within the nebula
That the words are liberated
And once again receive their lost meaning.

It is only my side-tracked mind,
Seizing at the opportunity to speak
That draws me near here,
Every now and anon.

It is by this pain that I feel
That I am able to navigate
These starless surroundings,
Desperate feelers ahead
Catching the void in the act.

Echoes

There are echoes between the songs
Marking my way along the causeway,
Now dusty with rustling leaves,
Now swimming in bright ecstasy
Nourishing the anemones below.

These echoes do not remind me of the past,
Like the rest of their kin;
Nay, they come from the present itself,
Hiding in the plainest sight
Of the self blind,
Marked by eerie colors that spin
Only when you wish it.
And you wish it.

They, like the consciousness within,
Hallow the wild distances of the soul,
Now clear of obstacles and remnants forsaken
And yet unforgotten in their course of familiarity
With the distant and disdained.

The echoes are melodious in more than
Any single way I can relate;
They resound the sweet hollow of the walls
Of my existence as easily as the bitterest
Freedom bell of a lost libertine.
They signify the long road's narration
And equate it with its meaning,
Spelling both desire and remorse
In their fading and their longing.

I wish I could hear it all,
The music of the echoes,
And between.

At Lunch

Once again I am enshrouded with that white mist,
Encompassing my vision and blurring sensation
Like an evil trip, spiraling in all directions, howling, howling
For the dark moon;
I freeze, unable to think except in numbers, adding, adding just
To keep it there while it lasts.

The table grows far and the salad turns unto the happy isles next to your hand, your face.
I cannot swallow, cannot dream, cannot feel, cannot...

I am paralyzed here in this shabby light,
Crucified by your imagined glare, the steak stares back butNo,
I cannot think just yet. Adding is safe, yes. Safe.

My white shroud dissipates and I, a neonate Wight in lunch,
Descend upon my wooden throne to swallow last supper's remnants; a little stale, I sigh.

On an on I wait it out,
Not knowing where or who and when, I endure my tears and music,
Consuming myself in order to live out another day, yet I do not live in a single hour.

I crawl out of the wreckage, smiling at my lovely strange world,
Clinging to distant hopes of past deeds, once resembling the semblance of normalcy.
There I am one of the ignored. Here, there is only the void.
So who is staring back at me?

These Days

These days I am constantly angry,
My fury flows and splashes around,
Heaving its red and green tentacles
Around and around,
Amassing in great celerity
At the borders of my sanity.

My field of vision narrows
At the two butterflies
Twirling in the sun,
Forever spinning and dancing
Aloft the grass-not-greener,
Copious with yellow wasps.

Prodded by the doubled edge fork
The bile in my mouth builds
A thorny tower of disease
Not easily averted,
Nor lightly illuminated
By my moonless spurn.

These days the darkness claims me
And I cannot escape;
My chaos is making good
On its premise to deliver;
My anger flows back to its source,
That crumpled shell of me.