Any self-organizing system is limited by the confines of environment
within which it must find sustenance to survive.
I am no good at flinging darling anecdotes from pithy trunks of
collected gems, street stoop wisdom, chit and chat on
an evening breeze.
It’s not like when the lines come prearranged ready to sustain visual fantasy;
or jagged, crazy waves obscurely accent sounds we hear only by reflection.
Cracked glass from which all energy has seeped.
Empty, fragile, without purpose.
High on the kill-endorphin ecstasy,
orgy of war against all who are not me.
After firework fog clears and faint light becomes tomorrow.
Nothing left to confess;
cleansed, hale lungs assimilate new suggestions.
Appreciation, cooperation imbued as art.
True beauty trumps
exhilaration of destruction.