Mastering the Art of the Downward Spiral
If only I could touch the disjointed thoughts
that aren’t afraid to weave themselves
into fairy tales then down the drain
like spiderwebs introduced to a vacuum.
Do they come through hardened, bright and clean,
immune to these white wash blinks
between sleep and wake that house catacombs
of story boats like You and I?
Is the moment between a wish and a guideline
a glass cache for the inmate ideas
that light the crevices of line upon line
like the constellations poised against a sparsile backdrop?
The thoughts’ makers scurry towards windows rusted
at the hinges as if a tilted glance through stubborn eyes
slitted by fatigue’s submission to gravity
would scatter and pinpoint their hushed intentions
like butterflies pinned to velvet.
As if sharing their story lines of doubt, remorse,
dissolution, and regeneration after a static stagnancy, accidental,
would grease the very hinges that had rusted over
from staying indoors on purpose to begin with.
I looked up.
Would you believe it was 11:11? (I wish that those
hushed intentions were there to make me wish
for that without knowing the time)
If knowing the exact amount of moments
I’ve been alive, sidereal and otherwise,
weren’t such a math problem away,
I’d entitle this “Unintentional Ego Demolition
which probably equates to an undying, barbaric ONE,
but I’d like to be able to prove that
before I give up on magic and wordplay.