Lunatic’s Ramble

I have nothing to say to you tonight.

Surely you’ve grown sick of my aching arrangement of the lexicon.

Surely, you are bored.

What could I say that the sun hasn’t already relayed back to you?

That I missed my meds.

That I dented my car.

No, it’s never that trivial with us, is it?

It’s always a wound—

A stitch that, staring into your silver glow,

I can’t help but pry open.

It’s always a regret,

a confession,

a holy plea.

A fucking divine bargain.

There is no speaking to you without insanity.

And yet, I spill mercury tears over trembling lips

and force you to witness,

just to feel I am real.

I ramble about how they made you King in folklore,

Goddess in myth.

I chase after rabbits,

leave offerings for nymphs.

I look for mercy in every golden moon

and tell myself it gives me grit.

But the letters of a lunatic never seem to cease.

Tomorrow I’ll be telling you about the changing leaves.

I’ll tell you that I’m angry

that I have hopes and dreams again,

but my past always finds me.

That red and blue lights under pale moons will always be haunting.

Oh watcher of many, savior to none…

is my bleeding candor to your satisfaction?

Silver siren,

do you not grow bored of luring minds to a maddening end?

Are you as hungry as poets?

Do you write about us

the way we write about you?

What would you say?

Would you tell me to stop romanticizing the ache,

to stop building cathedrals around my suffering?

Or would you tell me you’re just a rock,

reflecting borrowed light?

It doesn’t matter anyway.

I’d twist your words into poetry.

I’d make a religion out of your indifference.

Don’t be a stranger.