Poetry

Its hard not being at the festivals
Not swimming in the seas of love
And general good vibes
That permeate the trees
Whispering oh so softly
“I am the tonality that will make you deaf
And bring death to your ego
So, if only for a passing moment,
You may frolic in joy
And rest assured that there is nothing to rest from”
 
“You are the eternal form my child
The vapid check has none against you
Bloom forth, and there shall be none to stop
Your romanticizing of everything”
For once again, with an object of endearment
I have tried to trap it in my cell
Of thought and nervous tapestry
That deadens love and brings form to effulgence
 
Its hard not being at the festivals
And not among the crowd, when not
The world strikes me as awfully cold
And quite dim apart from those joyous lands
Sixteen shades grow from my fingers
To feel the life that evaporates
And caresses the beauty
Of all pervasive language
Stumbling up like a helicopter into
The black night
Climbing over toad stricken stools
And rampant drug brigades
Fight down and hammer home
The relinquished energetic field
Bring light into the patch-work
And shed joy into the crevice
 
One valley then another
Atop cyanide pained cremation
As one person takes a step
And another does to
In synchronic hope
Tripping each other
I can feel it on my finger tips
The world being peeled away from
By noticing my finger tips
Goodbye
The world has become self-aware
Is sterile
Is dead