Spring Fever

 
 
 
Such a psychotic mess.
Such a mood slave.
Prickly dendrites, echoes of abandoned lives.
Voiceless words compel, demand hearing.
Why do they beg at my door, cloying, whine,
grab at my eyes with scarring claws?
I who possess only obsessed fashioning of dried
vital fluid,
only curdled nightmares – fragments cast askew;
lost, the thread that was to sew me whole.
Shiny coins twinkle, fit so adroitly in
cyborg skin’s mechanical slot.
Brite tinkly musical ringers effervesce.
Beautiful, hungry sycophants consume,
piranhic bliss.
No magical kiss, no fated lover to heal
and carry me home.
Ardent gifts spurned or derided as
inexcusable tackiness, spat as moldy
decay, cannot buy care or worth.
Mock, if you must for sustenance.
I curl against entropy into a trashed
cardboard box, bleed stale air.
.
.
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