Of Dawn's Abyss
or
The Sad Chatter of a Mad Hatter
Wandering white doves drift by . . .
Pondering, high-strung, if I could fly . . .
Would I reminisce above the riptide?
Gift tied, I delivered my presence wrapped, entrapped
in wax, shrouded in shrapnel, a casual jackal in mask.
As long as I am upright, I am uptight, laughing at the thought
that love might subside my lust quite; yet it's something always sought.
Injections of saline, now the scenes of daily, seem not to dissuade me
when pleas fraught with dismay mean please stop with the hating.
"He's no longer with us - caught in the daydream, his soliloquy sedating."
Standing at the edge of the bronze cliffs, at the behest of Dawn's Abyss:
Aim not amiss, my demons beckon the plunge under veils anonymous.
Of course I'm not fond of this, I am a slave upon this ship, sinking,
its destination being anywhere other than the space I do my thinking.
I owe my own men some sort of omen when it comes to the notion
of roamin' oceans alone without matters of motion; one's devotion
prone to lacking motivation without a way home from the wave's throne.
My loyalty - paved stone - unwavering and authentic as clay bone -
lingers lonesomely on the brink, wishing it had only stayed home.
My desperate demons' demeaning demands - atrocious;
absentmindedly approaching ends of rope - psychosis.
Picturing pigment of a figurine figment pendent upon a penchant need
for penmanship premises promising the honoring of hedonistic henchmen.
Perhaps I can carry on after all . . .
After all, inundating, marry song -
undulating, weary calm -
stored my soul aft - her all . . .
