Imagination in a Mad World

I am not mad

Unless by mad you mean foolish.

I am not vindictive,

But the world can’t hear me, can it?

Galvanizing me to speak,

A thousand word-thoughts flicker their way--

They cannot be spoken.

I cut off my tongue.

I would hold my silence more piously than a nun if I were wise.

By now I’ve realized “me”

And I am content to spectate,

Despite by my own inadequacies.

More by chance than design

I speak as a golem, slow, dumb,

A Gollum, possessive, obsessive.

But unspoken

No more discernable desperation in my mad eyes,

An atheistic arrhythmia-- life is a lost faith

Of mad eyes,

Passionate eyes,

Resentful I’s.

Too much love, faked

Awkward, wilting eyebags of strangers and myself,

Reddened bloody blue, blackened,

Maddened in unsightly hues

From sweaty frights-- sleep?

No more sweaty silhouettes,

Dried cardboard outlines on my bed.

No realization of how Big our imaginations minus the world is.

Only remembering echoes of a long-lamented song,

Bottled inside a shell of unspoken asphyxiation.

Shattered,

Let it be

And sing the song again.