I am a prisoner
of words
done said,
debtor
to the those
urging
deep in my head,
brilliant light
that turns us
into circling moths
and it grips
like the lines
that forms the dots
for those
a blurred
dream
coming into being
like a meme,
ever present
like the shadows
waiting to be one
beyond the dark,
unseen like
the underground movement
the arteries felt
the choke of the smoke
more work for my heart,
there is method to my madness
otherwise, this wouldn’t be an art*