Illness of Mind
The whit of peeve groans
slopes & rise,
slopes & rise as looping voices under disguise,
heave of raving voiced begrudge,
slopes & rise these inward knolls
burden streaming brooks
and un-foraged load,
so far, the mile, path to uneasy soul,
therein mirage fairing inward ethos’
grave starved quieting the mocking groans;
in the real, not so.
O suffering,
those unconscious woes’
deprave, hast wander’d thorough.
Still I sleep. Still I dream.
Whilst dormant conjures probe
tiniest relate with ancient lunatics,
inward hidden.
Copyright © MaxOp's Lyricism | Year Posted 2026
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