i have become
ensnared in these
non-euclidean
geometries
slip sliding
in between
presient states
of unbeing.
deep beneath
known gnome sanctuaries
in maggot ridden
constanbularies
of petrified
dusky wooden refrains
clanging chains
of rusted solidarity
chatter hollowly
into the chasm of
midnight’s dark gaze.
upon the silent wings
the great owl
infused with chaos
crackling upon
wings of razored will
hunts its prey
huddled in the
rotting leaves of
autumn’s sullen kiss
in whispered cries
inexistent despair
a memory of golden bells
sound over fields of
torential woe.
i watch it all
a thousand unblinking
eyes across pale
white flesh wrapped
in gossamer dreamsilk
in puckered scars
like kisses across
my heaving chest
trapped in equations
alliterations of
passionate madnesses.
Mike's Manic Word Depot 
This is quite something of a word wicked way to describe any disease physical or mental illness that can strike anyone even if it’s not where you intended it to end it wound up here. But poetry no longer belongs to the writer once we let our little birds look down and spread their wings to fly or fall. Keep them flying!
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i need to revisit it, bit i love the idea it becomes something new to each reader. thank you for reading
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