The suspense...
...is killing me.
My miniscule mortal mind...
Clamps.
It constricts around the ambiguities.
Squeeeeak!
My shoulders hunch under the weight,
Of the stone cold wheel of 'reality.'
Down the hill of a typical rise and shine I go,
My psyche in tow,
Flapping in the fume.
What better doom,
Than to dream?
Shall we go, you and I while we can?
O, plastic day, would you hold me close?
I belong to you, masked or no.
Why must you hide from me so?
O, littered maw, would you wash me of this residue,
The wild, blue bunk of simple pain?
I am not so old as I seem.
Enchanted mist, ancient past,
Twist my hair into Viking's braids,
Entwined with baby's breath!
I hang my harp unstrung from the tree,
And sing the pure song of life!
Banshee, banshee, jump, jive, and wail!
Make these rains cascade their living guts,
All across the Kingdom Come.
I am blind and sick and think that I am well.
The sterile perfume of sanity has washed away the day.
O, day, o, day, where me and my true love,
Were ever wont to gae,
Show your true face to me!
My thought is disfigured by your hiss,
Methodical imperfect emptiness.
This minutia melts,
Through the floor,
Of the All-Shining Light,
And passes out of sight,
Of my clamping mind,
Stretched across the year,
Brought back to the day,
Where me and my true love,
Were ever wont to gae.
What better doom, than to dream?
I sally forth in mercy.
I am not so old as that.
SCA 2015