after stacking up several bottles of Zinfadel...

[mtmynd]

... I felt as though I had bronchial hedonism

so this exercise became a toss of words

convoluting exasperation from seeds of light
spilled upon floors of concrete rubbled by
the collapse of reality, the finality of mobility
realizing destinies that perception hawked from
the deliriums of sanctification made to desire
reaching like totems of chilled zinfandel bottles
stacked to ceilings coveting a summation of endings

why, o why must poetry become a chore to choke on

who elected the governor of meanings to speak for the deaf?

is not life to be enjoyed by the needy more than abundance?

again, a gain, the pain, the inane toppling delight thrice

the bronchial hedonism succumbed to death's march buried alive

a ballet of intrigue
under the spotlight
as an audience unseen
watches in abandonment
clutched to life... ahhhh

Those blessed cavorting dreams
dancing to the rhythm of silence
spellbound in octagon symmetry

Professing the pressure's strength
as the galloping horse neighs
it's fixated gaze trained on now.

The death of dreams
is the death of mind
worn thin from use.

You arose again,
your christ alive
when death of mind
retired suffering
from the magic of life

you are welcomed back
you are welcomed back
welcomed back you are

__________
Cecil B. Lee

[mnaz]

"Those blessed cavorting dreams
dancing to the rhythm of silence..."

Love that. Yes, who indeed elected the governor of meanings?...