There's this scintillating glow
Behind a sheer veil that falls ominously before my eyes
If only I might just...
sweep it aside
But nay
I am a moth drawn to the piercing flame of epitomical libido
So close am I
Yet here I sit in my straightjacket
Woven by the unwavering hands of Father Time
It takes a strength to find that patience is key
I'm promised freedom from my unyielding restraint
Patience is key
And so shines a new glow

Diving into a cornfield of despair, a creamy boa constrictor hugging my chest. Unable to reach the pliers sticking out of my pocket, painfully teasing. It releases briefly to allow the venomous shards of tolerance to reach my lungs for a moment. No matter the seemingly friendly gesture, just one puncture after the other.

Conspirators directing their standard march, strangling on cue with as much enthusiasm as a turtle gnawing at its brunch. Useless ******* schedule, condemned to it for a life-long demise.

To stop and ingest, a team of euphoric soldiers filing into my beaten past and creating a future that never would have been. Dispersed evenly so as to cancel out that which is to always be present in memory. A ray of sun kissing my cheeks as a symbol of hope and thrill. A smooth, unceasing sense of gratitude enjoying its residence and occupation, never feeling the need to vacation.

Glaring across the fiery pit of strangled agony, feasting his eyes on what was stolen from him so swiftly and without concern for the consequences. His pupils engulfed, his irises set on a rolling boil. Waiting to emerge with the bloodlust he could feel ever so gently floating to the surface. One pair of an inhale, exhale, back up and the sensation of flight rushing across his salt-encrusted face.
Laugh, laugh, laugh. They certainly will be once I've had my share of breaths. Feet thump to the ground and eyes bulge like kernels in the microwave. Bound--

The air is thick, my thoughts like putty.
                             Can't sort through the tangle of displaced dreams.
                           These lingering flies of memories long past continue to patronize me.
                             My mind is the fuzz of the television screen, the crowded room, the vibrating drums.
                                   Every ounce of my energy is wasted on the pestilence that rakes my eyes.
                                Each moment I come to the realization that time is an illusion, I feel the piercing gaze of Medusa in my heart.
        It skips the torture of ripping at my flesh and instead proceeds to lick the numbness right through the fibers of my skin.
         There's this funny little feline that uses me as her ball of yarn that, quite honestly, I've grown tired of.
  I don't know what it is to be confident in what I believe in at this point,
       because it is a foreign term, one determined to strangle me to the point of wintry solitude.

Walking down the road of what used to be hope, and inspiration, but what is now nothing more than an abysmal canyon whose prickly labyrinth walls I cannot seem to muster the brawn to climb over or run through.
I've seen this shrub before, thrice. Look at it, lessening into further darkness with each beat of a broken wing. I am forever set in this ritual purgatory. A separate state of consciousness unlike that of a recreational high.

A blade swims across marble, hitting snags at semi-frequent intervals. Strawberry thick streaks rushing across to the finish line, steady as she goes.

Gliding through a meadow of friendly daffodils and happy ticks marveling foolishly at how far they run, oblivious to the one-way mirror they have their Porky Pig noses turned up at. Icy harsh beads of green stabbing my face with every staggering breath.