Sick;
My mind a gentle hallucinogen,
aiding delusion’s pursuits.
With a vision of a thousand monarch butterflies
hovering over the dreamcast,
waiting to be fed the milkweed branches
that whistle its effortless harmony
into the deep underbrush of the pond...
Ribbit.

A pinnacle of puissance
you’ve tied upon me
the knots
in which, creating a tale:
The Oracle bends over,
his wrinkled hands brush against the thick binding...
Revenge.
The clock strikes its last hour;
The windows pried open by an omnipotent force.
A flame of gust rushes in—
the pages a flutter, a monarch too.
And its words, the flotsam above such shallow waters...
Ripple...

The horizon speaks its dawn song
and cries.
And sighs, and dies, dies, dies
into the air...disintegrating...
like the sandman,
tilting on the earth’s axis...
and it’s gone before you know it.
It's gone.