Mandorla (Survival of Idealism in the False Dreamland of Human Discontent)

Creep willow creep
Roots dig in dirt of my flesh, ripped up
Peace to wilted flowers
The sun is harsh on moods and happiness

This might seem made of madder things
So began the era of your moon
Great god of thou shalt-not
Contradiction is a nice word for lie

Dispelling my tulpa
Misplace manhood, misunderstood strength
Uncontrolled storm
Lakes bottomed in his footprint

Withholden thoughts of your existential compromises
Fingers poking your caged singing bird
Beautifully wrapped gift box full of broken glass
Silently great giants reflect

Hostile winter stretches my kiss
Lips scared with her
Locked in a stare with the mirror
Scrubbing death from my face

Dirty and used human utensils
Reflections creeping migraine
Dripping beautiful crimson raindrops in the well below
Polluted with insecurity, at least you feel

Cast adrift in the grasp of flying monkeys
One reads me Chekhov
Another analyzes my fleeting human condition
All are friends, their evil is only intention

Misplaced third eye’s monocle
Bleary thoughts cloud these prayers
Hungry for stolen happiness and hours devoured by reckless passion
Pangs of silent regret
Wicked, I never lost much in sound

Broken light crawling across empty walls
From dying fire of your proud man’s soul
This, my defeated solace
Worshipping my captor’s faith

Haunted by morning
Silent film satisfaction
Flickering scenes of sepia and mercury
Bound in sheets and sounds of life beyond these walls

Never eat formally
Starved fear’s great recession
Winter born frost bitten skin
Protecting my Christ child from false sunlight

Complexity cripples common men
Your crown of wired horror and splinted thorns
Darkened sundial path
Following your savior’s shadow

Marked my door in sacred blood
Don’t come around here no more
Shatter the windows and fill them with shame
House framed in recycled crucifix and holy paper

Jailed in my common regret
This, my radical monotheism
Caught in the father’s giant marvels
Home sick is there again tomorrow
I will stay a day more and watch Saturn turn

I think I hear mother calling, better hurry home
To sit at your table and feel like you feel when you knew someone cared
Drip tears out half way down Rogers Drive
Wake up young spaceman, your dreams are too long

Mandorla (Survival of Idealism in the False Dreamland of Human Discontent)

SolomonGrundy

Morristown, United States

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