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A saccharine rush and
a glass of oil, or water, or
Paint drifting like continents
on the surface of unknowable turmoil
And the ice...
it pops;
and cracks like my reason.
rewind, slow mo,
A mind unhinged and blowing wild,
Flags of conquered countries torn by wind,
unconsciousness streaming in through the eardrums
I think of rising up;
my balance fails,
the spiral of a wounded bird,
photos burning behind my eyes,
forced truth overshadowing my perceptions.
I sit back; rest my whirling head against the window,
and let the pen

fall.

Into the garden of the page,
and leave my consciousness,
like a lost key,
shining in the shrubbery