Rings of Smoke

These poems do not live: it's a sad diagnosis.

fallen angel

Posted on | October 25, 2007 | Comments Off

lack of sleep,
combines with repressed dreams,
and gives birth to hallucinations,
illegitimate offspring of unrequieted fancies,
these dreams flutter and waltz,
flitting across the eye like moonshadows,
or bright,garish images on a silverscreen,
these images dance and float,
smirking with flippant disdain,
an uncarinf,unfeeling desire,
that seeps from the heart,
flowing through the bloodstream,
churning,foaming and frothing in its own frustrations,
hallucinations live on to create worlds of their own..
and these desires arrange themselves,
in gilded circles and bars and nets,
and i struggle,try to spread my wings,
prisoner to my own desires,
and slave to unfaithful passions,
i look at the g(u)ilt and reconcile my soul,
and quiet my treacherous conscience,
so,i build another fence,
locking myself in an inner cage,and another,
i incarcerate myself,in private pandemonium,
a place of my own,
an inner self,where light resembles gloom,
and seek within me for myself,
and the distant voice calls out-
i am the new possesser,
fallen angel.

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