The Mad River | Poetry

A psychiatric disorder

would you love me till I’m dead?

Photo by JOE Planas on Unsplash

Third tier anesthesia, in a locked up north, our store of words fled, Belief? Empty as a music box for housing the dead; the bridge twixt give and take has crumpled into dust yet for the cowering people — wee, sleekit, cow’rin, tim’rous beasties - survival is a must.

We struggle to talk as free folk, to no longer dream our time away, fear appears blinking on the very brink of it all. Follow orders without question, never slink over the brink dream your heart out through a lingering death, so nothing’s left.

Colors, music, synaesthesia, too risk your words, laughter too, this will-o’-the-wisp of skin and bone circulates in free air, not in a human zoo; skin shielding glimmering-bone-white-light, some like it hot, others just bite, i stutter along….singing a song, flit from the merest echo of pitch into a fully-fledged minor chord bitch residents of a ditch in time save nine (lives)

long, long to be free, spring on us images of crowds, gleaned from memory, flutter away those plucked every day gaze into fire take on the mantle of silence, time passes by, under a tumbling chiaroscuro sky a sprinkling gyre lights up my northern sky.

[embed]