I’m lost amidst the closets of curiosities,
Trapped within the fibres of a page.
Desperately humming lackluster songs of
Redemption.

Straining my eyes to see into the dark,
Scanning subconscious horizons in search
Of the rocky cove where the sun will be.
Reborn.

My fingers are bleeding from trying to grasp.
The peonies and gardenias in my skull,
Losing my grip on the garden in my mind.
Shrieking.

Obscure obscenities as the angels stand and
Stare. Nonconformity has eternally failed me.
Garden nymphs move their wooden mouths.
Whispering.

Songs of sorrow and the skies.
Constructing.
Oddly-shaped windows of eternal insignificance.