Like geysers of sand
Or fountains of tar
Pulling and warping
Like taffy by the machinations
Of a confectioner
Rolling and pulsing
With the feverence
Of an angry Poseidon
As I sort this psychic portion
Restraining in one discontent
The other paranoia--confusion,
These sagging bowls of tiring imbalance
Gated only by resolute-inconstant will
A chemist's logic couldn't conquer it
If I were to express
The first thoughts
Of my marathon mind
Filterless and pure
I doubt a friendly face
Would look me eye to eye
Or confidently step toe to toe
With the psychic portion
In this frame
I'm a hair breadth from exposure
The only barrier left
Is but a gauzy screen of pretense
That the lightest scratch may tear
So--anxious for the moon
Heralding a wall of sane light
For I can think of nothing less
Than the lunar god to blame
No comments:
Post a Comment