There is a path ahead;
detours include wrath and dread.

Grotesque silhouettes
inhaling dismal cigarettes,
hitching along as we try to stay strong;
only purpose: spinning good deeds wrong.

Like malicious spiders trapping us
within webs of oppressed depression,
with options of staying here or slaying fear.

Charge forward, calamity no longer sticks;
time to smash through these enclosing bricks.

Reach out; fingers spread,
nearing the yearned path ahead;
hollowness filling, an embrace willing
to revolve around multitasked moons,
clenching the omniscient strings
of an infinity vermillion balloons.

Fighting toward the destination awaiting,
draining poison from tumors complicating.

Light fall winds carry the deflated away,
leaving us to stay and sway under and over
clouds and seas, surrealistic palm trees.

Thoughts difficult to explain,
yet I’m ascertain of destiny at its finest;
so let mania relinquish,
and allow the folded to unfold.

Fables we’ve told,
soon to be a font enlarged
by reality’s ink;
an endless snapshot
captured by spirituality’s blink.