Eye slits the blurred edge of a lash
Borders of a flattened world,
We fall off the edge.
Beyond floats a white-washed wall.
The truth lies inside the square atoms,
I worry about the stream plunging from the edge.
--Schizophrenic poet
The precipice of this disease pulls against the rationality of gravity,
As the sounds grow louder and the lights stronger, he becomes
Weaker in playful accusations that he was to never be the same again,
The sounds of the birds flying overhead were gears grinding,
And the conversations were always about him, equally as jarring
Against his frail mind, he chose seclusion as a defense---a way out.
The sun was evil,
The moon was surreal, bending with the foolish face,
Pressing on the oceans to pull him beneath to a watery death.
He wasn’t strong anymore, weak and frail as a dead snake, once
He had a purpose, a reality to evoke with a map he’d painted,
But there was no legend, and nothing to feed upon by his posterity,
Just silence and never being.
A walking corpse.
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