The itch is less than constant pain
not enough to cause a moan
but always there in misery
asking balm to cure the ill

that static humming on the nerves
stripped to wires sparking hot
the echoes sound at all times
a dirge to state illusion's cast

the glow perceived in manic flush
wishing less than consequence
perhaps the crowds can’t conceive
a state beneath that asks too much

at the price of sanity
a rage suppressed against the need
questing for the medicine
applied to scratch demanding deeds.

© 2019. Sean Green. All Rights Reserved. 20190831.