How many times, must I swing from a height
To an inevitable hollow of apathy and decay?
Riding the crest of a 30 foot wave
Strewn ashore to begin paddling the sea of life anew.

Stability is a still lake, calm and serene
Yet lacking sublimity and inspiration
Passivity, the bitter sweetness of fitting in
Normal I may be, but seemingly dull.

If only I could be coherent
When high, like tributaries to a river
Each stream of consciousness
Adding to a global master plan.

Exodus of the emotions, the Latin ecstase
As it pours forth unending, without pause
Elation edgy yet welcomed
To some my words seem without cause.

Surely there is some truth
Some empirical evidence that says
Hypomania is unsorted flourishing
Condensed and concentrated well-being.

Many waiting ruins from yesteryear,
Begin to beg for play, for sharing.
Spaces left hollow, only by lack of play,
By lack of bustling movement.

These ruins wail the aural ecstase,
Like a holographic butterfly effect,
Still there, yet causing memories,
Effecting wanton, screaming for times gone by.

These ruins they lay still, a picture yet,
Passers by gossip the new owners,
Its orphaned attendees are those who scream,
In their minds, in their hearts.