Coffee mug beside a torrent of electric shocks,
ideas of what was and what could not be.
What succeeded and passed or failed an stood stuck,
thoughts about everything that eyes no longer see.
An idea of you, a sense of everybody a maze of wills,
the events that made the mess that today writes these rhymes.
A self afflicted martyr, the emperor in a palace of chills
where dreams lie in their stone cold confines.
Ideas gently floating in the vacuum of obsessions
through the blue noble blood of sins that like demons of the past
allow me to make the simplest of pyrrhic concessions,
which is that even while smiling, everything fades fast.
This is like a slow mellow guitar chord
accompanied by nicotine and a whisky glass
it is the storm that we never saw coming
and now have to endure as it comes to pass.
Am I insane for paying tribute to the unchangeable?
For tragically clawing the linen like the buried alive?
For turning the unusual into the assailable?
Am I insane for letting my feelings drive?
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