Human Wreckage (Part 1)

I can’t walk out on this feeling; Sharpened wings of a broken Cessna clip The meanings of my speech and thoughts, Shearing off jagged chunks of dialectic as it Ploughs nose-first in a drunken field where The barley and wheat reeled. Threshing a painting in my mind done By some cracked-up renaissance artist. He took to his bed in order to avoid the Loss of love and died there alone. I avert my own gaze from objects of desire, Potent caskets conveying mushroom folly, Otherwise depicting love borne to the loveless. I am fearful of affection, the craving And where it can lead. I cling to the visual wreckage of the plane, The tail stabbing at the very sky that Threw it to the summer earth in a temper; Smoke trails drift from busted twin props Towards a sun they can never reach or embrace. The crash-site reminds me of me, my Kamikaze psychology, my gyroscopically inadequate mind-set; I realise the plane and the pilot became as one, Guidance system and guide into the ashen testament Of bitterest stone-ground disaster.