I was no longer chaotic. I was a synchronised wreckage, a little too perfectly timed.
Days and nights that converge
Onto a Canvas of immense clarity:
Leading lines of longing
That seem to go nowhere except
For my floating heart that would rather
Combust, leaving fumes of nostalgia;
Right at the centre, is a fusion of colours
Rare and raging with a ruckus of the mind
That can’t help but walk down empty
Pathways where Fear and Paranoia
Meet for a little rendezvous of their own;
Spots in the sky that merge so smoothly
with the desolation of my mouth as I speak
Of dreams rising from the bottom of my throat
Too late, always, they wiggle back unchaperoned.