Counterpoint

I don't write the words -
I pull them,
aching and throbbing and pulsing,
from the wavering miasma of my consciousness,
bubbling like some medieval swamp,
like a bog.
Complete with stench.

The stench of my decomposing dreams.

I remember,
wandering and strong and determined
in my unknowing,
in my immaturity,
safe from such dangerous thoughts,
from such dangerous turns,
from such terrible, cavernous thoughts -
thoughts like oubliettes.

Such damnable thoughts.
A maze of thoughts,
a regular labyrinth of thoughts,
all about him, of course.
Never expect anything less.

I plunged back into the ordinary cocksure,
into my life, my world -
of teddybears and princesses and music boxes,
all to be put away, to be set aside -
for I was oh-so-strong and oh-so-sure.
A regular heroine returning victorious.

And now I stare into the moon at midnight,
a moon like a crystal,
luminous and full,
whispering of secret promises
as the world falls down.

As my world falls down.
In nice, neat, adult-like shambles,
lacking the essential stuff of fantasies and dreams,
tasting of the usual, the ordinary, and the everyday -
gray upon gray upon gray,
eating away at my perfect pose of potential and promise.

But do I dare call again,
Do pride and ego allow it,
Will common sense abide it,
Can sanity tolerate it?

Ask me if any of that matters.

I dashed all those fragile monuments
to the realm of normalcy
long ago.

I need someone
to show me my dreams.




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