Can there be logic,
In the face of so much,
Blind,
Searing,
Unknown?
I can’t tell.
Breathing goes too fast.
Thoughts go too much.
And, in that rush,
There can be no such thing as clarity.
The logic chain,
That runs along a human brain,
Is not to dance,
Like it had,
Before,
Instead, it shall crush,
Beneath its own spiraling weight,
And unearth in someone,
A searing self-hate.
Underneath such tremors,
Of minds undone,
We could forget all the labels,
Of mother,
Of sun,
Of searing blaze churning,
Back to nothing, my friend,
In the wake of it all,
Towards a bitter end.
There is nothing,
Sin, though it rends,
No presence of this,
This thing coated in stressed blood,
Within insanity,
Not vanity,
Though you may call it that.
Not catastrophe, either,
Not a heart burst open.
Not a flying fuck given.
Not a sorry spoken.
If you think you have a handle,
On your so-called life,
Then take a long look at panic,
And feel your mind at the edge of a knife.
—
Special thanks to: Bob Gerkin, Collin Pearman, Dylan Alexander, Jerry Banfield, and Michael The Comic Nerd.
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