Hours, dull hours press upon my brain
'Til, blunt with unawareness, I float free
Of my corporeal shell, and go insane,
Open now to what has been, must be,
And all the options of eternity
Spread out before me. All at once o'erseen,
Looked down on and described expressively
Within an instant - with a primal keen
That shrieks against the openness. Too clean,
Too clean - such moments are not unified,
But always hurried, rushed, blotched red and green,
Confused in their attempt to shove aside
Division. If I must go mad, I'd like
To be the proper kind, with mind on strike.
No comments:
Post a Comment