There is
steeped madness
atop mantle piece cliffs
as if
poised,
in reluctant certainty at our hot fate.
Somewhere,
in the steamy depths
of man’s mind, our mind
my mind
stews and perpetuates
fuming intent
eroding at the edges,
of life for what
it is and isn’t
or wont be for
future tenses and a
conceptualizing
intensity in a
place which hasn’t
ever been realized
or
even moved along a
narrow line
of directed discourse,
dictated dialysis:
deviation
from the center-ed
path
of righteous, heavenly
glory
of the gods,
in the clouds,
on the prowl in the wicked black of sneering night.
For Retribution!
For Respiration!
For Residual indications on the slick success of cheering fights.
and on and on
were that they were
forever forward still.
But were still revisiting things
which were never seen
in re-wrought thought
I thought
I saw but not
because seeing isn't believing.
And believing isn’t anything really
but lengthy
listless lists
and heavy
habitual hope.
© 2011