What worth am I
in all this madness
what worth are you
in the depths
of all this sadness
there,
see the flight path
to elevation
inside the feels;
inside the fields
of darkness
spring wells of
orbs popping light
the half-stride
of trying phantoms
planting seeds,
half-baked poetry
running
through the veins
the golden fields
of darkness
minutiae sleeping
with Morpheus
under the velvet blankets
of Elysium
terra firma robes
overly well worn
divested now
in waking
kissing the farewell
to be received blessed,
annointed in the essence
of the uncommon
there,
the busy minded,
the unnaturally gifted -
The Poets ...
call you,
see -
the flight path
to elevation
inside the outside inside -
or, called back outside,
there you remain,
forever fixated
on cracking the inside
the hoax planted
in a dybbuk box
unfounded
unworthy demon
sunken
treasure
buried forever
grounded
hear them all, see,
inside the common feels,
the uncommon Poets
call you
see,
the flight path
to elevation
reaching
inside the outside inside
Candide Diderot. ‘24
crosses.
Your days are numbered from the time you were born
Before you know it you blink and they're gone
It is incumbent when finding you're an adult
To select the right course, proceed, protest or join a cult
For sooner than soon, the youthful spring disappears
It dawns that you're old and it will move you to tears
But what comes next might be most important of all
When your eyes finally close comes the judgment call
All the iniquitous things you had chosen to do
Will then be paraded once more before you
But it's then too late and what's done can't be changed
It's Satan's stone where your acts are written and maintained
So think about this when that Dybbuk sits on your shoulder
And tell him "go back to Hell" before you get any older
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