Apropos Creation?

sometimes in life
it’s all you can do
not to hang from the end
of a dangling noose
when ideals falter
from altered epiphanies
self-imposed litanies
taunt us as truth

reasons unclear
hearken feelings concise
as we slowly succumb
to scopolamine nights
on a hollow dimensional plane
of feigned platitudes
sorrowful vice
desperate pleas seeking quietude

labeled as sacrilege
should we repair
to undo the heedless act
of summoning us here
where an iron fist reigns
with such ironic scrutiny
e’er you should mention
proactive acuity

still, none dare question
’til quietus calls
of that which our parents
paid no mind at all
the stigma, long-standing
insists these facades
are gifts that cannot be revoked
but by god

how oddly beholden
to cognitive bias
that we forgo logic
and deign ourselves pious
to then misappropriate
most hypocritically
fate in itself
with such flagrant defiance

if only our efforts
were aimed toward reality
instead, we sacrifice all
for mere fantasy
lacking the merit
to make the distinction
between fact and metaphorical depiction

we must make the choice
to adhere to a mindset
consisting of ethics
not pandered by pretense
for should we persist
to exist with such dissonance
life itself will soon submit
to obsolescence

[image credit: Louis Wain]

Man-Made Mood

suicide
can swoon you
come the solstice moon’s
return

in spite of its obsequious attendance
on the fives and tens

some would even say
it was romantic

though i’m not inclined
to justify your prying
either way

airing such affairs
errs most uncouth
besides this documenting

circumstances
spare no time to tarry

only in the spongecake
of a soft and silky
skull-bound stockade

does a tolerance
evince

alas, these are but
ramblings
of a mordant
man-made mood

so pardon me
for pissing
on your balsamine
impatiens

[image credit: Frantisek Kobliha]

Stranded On the Precipice

death escaped
my hands

and left me

standing at the altar

the emptiness
received me
like a self-
inflicted wound

in a room
adorned with trinkets of trifle

faintly linking
my alter-ego
to this faux land

of vaulted heart
and vapid mind

where visions turn
away
afraid
to learn

of their inbound
inception

this blunderous aberration
has no station

nor foot
to find it steady

a cistern of depleted days
precedes each ghastly step
in protest

stranded
on the precipice
of a sempiternal impasse

surely they jest
upon questioning
assent to my depression

such pain belies
its own expression

and politesse yet stays
my tongue