she loves to dance in bedlam
to the beat the shadows throw
in a gown of sequin macabre
since her mind left home

where webs of  deceit hang from chandlers
and madness is the party game
blowing the horns of something's wrong
in an eerie game of charades

the cook that's in her kitchen
bakes a don't dare go there souffle
though she dips her fingers in it
through out her darken days

you may take the chance in joining her in dance
on this the razors edge
when all is said and the day has bled
she pulls the sheets of madness up on her bed

Cheap,
convenience
store coffee,
steaming
out of
a styrofoam
cup,
clacking
against the
walls. Just
as I sip
veteran brewed
mocha mud,
burnt,
I unerringly
gripe about
those late
library
fees; my pockets
are parched.

And I think growing up had more
to do with the struggle of validating
your pipe dreams and protecting your
worlds virginity, than it ever had
to do with transcending your naive mind.
It became difficult to hope for
something figmental, let alone comfortable,
so you accept reality as only concrete.
Perhaps that is why you began to
digress through third grade
crushes, because it was the closest
thing to impossibility but borderlined
on the edge enough to authenticity
and tangible reality that it was okay.
And that was when you definitely sensed it,

*that hundred to one feeling.