Tag Archives: insanity

Pre-joy fog

Bow me down before I sleep,

the long, tired walk of restlessness in pseudo-dream

and fog between waking and knowing.

Therein lies a mist-blanketed shore,

acrust with gems of shell

and litter strewn by eons lost

beneath Time’s own slumberous tread,

forcefully forged from bone and shield

to powder dust of crystal

and thought.

On silent beach spill sapphire waves

yielding their life upon unlit sand

and polished heart of wood

no longer adrift.

Under clouded night

with moon hid behind gauzy cloud,

gray-yellow above the black glass sea,

unfolds nothing

but weighty time

and build of pressure,

dead steel of sword upon my head

shorn and cold and alone in thought

beneath ever deepening nightshadow of cliffs

tall and stern and proud –



Unfold my eyes before the dawn,

cold grey expanse.

The day is pain of sinew and structure,

of back and foot and head and heart.

Perhaps the joy, indeed, lies under varied sky,

and I err to search for it here.


Though I rise slowly,

the Earth drops below me at an alarming rate,

the palette paling from verdant azures to the quickening void of space.

Even as the vista shrugs off the color and sound of life,

my view is narrowed,

pulsing and throbbing in silence at the edge of my sight,

washing away to a single, uninterrupted circle of focus,

a portal into a deeper nothing than that surrounding me.

I am not truly here,

no.  I am no longer truly anywhere,

and it is a broken husk with sightless vision that stares emptily

at a horizon that my consciousness cannot perceive –

I am become a ghost,

tormented apparition that is itself imperceptible

even as I lose the concept of perception.

The breath of the wind touches something that used to be a part of something

that I was a part of,

but am no longer.

The rushing caresses the intimates of ears

that no longer drive thoughts of hearing or of sound or of meaning,

the clip of my boot on the ground is a sound lost,

empty shaking of air with no information,

no echo in my person.

Like the breeze race past thought upon thought,

dreams of understanding,

aspirations of immortality and of grandeur,

and all that is is contained in the wake of their passing,

but I am no longer drawn to stretch out the reach of my mind to grasp them.

Instead I know of their passing,

I understand the loss of their whispers

as my apathy and impotence finalize their emphemerality.

Like a single drumbeat,

cached in the roar of thought and unheard sound and sightless vision

stirs a still, small voice that hums a single phrase;



An old creak as the doors of the morning rattle from the sweet cover of unconscious dream.

The painful light of being bears down on me,

urging and pressing and warring.

In waking there is no repose,

Duty latches onto my first thought –

a schizophrenic voice,

maleficent and sharp.

There is no soft glow of morning here,

no quiet solitude before the dawn to prepare.

Here no sailors press the shoes of luck before the day begins,

for the night has been a brief pause only,

and yesterday’s burdens beat the dust of responsibility from their coattails

and into my sputtering,

coughing lungs.

Now the cold light drips down on me,

artificial and frigid,

it stings my eyes even as it reminds me that nature lies afar

just outside my reach,

just outside my sight.

I rot in this cage of the mind,

watching as each precious moment of being is traded for a morsel

and mortgaged for another sack of chores,

always waiting

always bearing down and pressing crushingdehumanizingdamningkilling.

There is no escape.

I have no metaphor,

no poetic analogy.

I am trapped.

This is Hell.


It’s still there,
the ever-present roiling,
the ever gnawing
Oh, but I grow so weary,
I am spent
with so little left for tomorrow,
for being,
for myself.
Wave after wave after wave,
I flail beneath the encompassing crush.
It is so close,
a sweet reprieve through quiet bliss,
a mouthful of water,
a quick, merciful gulp of burning resolution,
it is so near,
my fingers touch that place,
chill and warmth and pain and acceptance.
With a sigh,
a breathy whisper I am gone,
forgotten and unknowing,
to sleep in undisturbed,
unknowing silence.


Start again.

And here we are.
A meandering path from innocence to…
to somewhere else.
Through torment and joy and fear and triumph,
to arrive at a place both ephemeral and permanent.
I am,
but I am becoming.
I am,
and I am not yet.
I am so weary of the trek,
and I no longer know how to justify the race,
how to envision the prize.

I do nothing.
I think nothing.
I delay and obfuscate and deny.
Time is a healer,
and I cry into Her bosom,
waiting for healing,
waithing for health.

an in between place

I wait in this in between place,

this place that is nowhere.

I wait alone with myself,

with our many selves,

hesitant to commit.


Through this mist,

this pervasive sadness that coats my bones,

a lilt of an accent,

bright memories of yesterday –

of dragonflies and of stairways,

we wonder which of us is real,

which of us is to be real.


Do I decide?

Is the decision mine

to collapse these infinite possibilities

into a single,



Is the true self decided by fate

by God,

or a foolish boy’s choice?


I watch the alternatives crumple

into the hungering fog of impossibility.


I stand and wait,


in this place of infinite loss.

I cannot reach out,

will not reach out,

for I have lost the desire for direction,

for life or for death.


So I stand within this self,

in the midst of this host of possible selves –

the dwindling remains of who we could have been,

would have been,

if not for…


There is no collapse,

no singular focus.

We are all illusion,


visions to blind children.


I am truly thankful for these thoughts,

these inwardly directed thoughts from outside,

these shining lines of hope,




But yet I wait here,


and anything but alone.



Simon – 11/16/13

My Dear Simon,

It was good to see you again the other night. It has been such a long time. I can’t remember how long it has honestly been since we last spoke.

You have changed some – you seem darker, less present than you once were. Surprisingly though, I felt a touch of peace in you that I did not remember from before. I read some of your older work, and perhaps I can see some inkling of that peace in your words. It’s so hard to say though. I suppose you’ve seen so much since we last spoke, since the last time I read one of your pieces. I was more than a touch melancholic in wondering what we might have seen together, had things worked out differently. Looking back now, I am not sure I would have endured traveling through the places you’ve been in the recent past. Yes, you have most definitely changed. You are aged like wine, or more aptly, like an iron rod tempered through the heat.

As to the idea of another visit? I am not sure. I think you were right in your perception that my hold on reality, and on sanity, is not the strong, rooted grip that I had believed. With the girls gone, and your recent words echoing in my mind, I can see the veil thinning. It is more than a little terrifying.

I have become complacent here, at ease in the struggle for normalcy that fatherhood and married life bring. This career, the continual chewing up of the physical world in piecewise puzzles, the poor sleeping, the dearth of spare time – all of these ‘problems’ have only reinforced the mists obscuring who I am. When you asked me who I was now, I suppose we both saw that doubt. It was momentary, but it was real nonetheless. I knew you weren’t belittling what I have earned here, even though it is something that you will never comprehend. That was generous of you – another badge you’ve earned on this journey? Even though you weren’t trying to insinuate anything, I took your point to heart. And I have the answer for you now. Who am I now? I have no idea. I honestly have no idea. That is my answer.

You’ve had this time to be, to explore and witness. But I have become convinced that we are not alone. I can no longer afford to live as you do – an island of thought and consciousness in a vast sea of Everything. I have become a device, a tool for consciousness to develop itself. I know that you don’t accept that, that you can’t accept that. But even you, especially you have to understand this. What you live, those thoughts and dreams – those are not free. Each quanta of your consciousness has been bought and paid for through the life, death, and suffering of another being. Even as the stones cry out their names, crushed under the immeasurable weight of time – those names have built that island of your identity. Perhaps that is who I am now. I toil for that consciousness. I am working to transcend these boundaries – and for that reason, sharing thoughts with you is painful. I am building something, laying structures and foundations upon which your freedom will be established, and that of my children.

No Simon, I have not diminished. I have not stagnated. I have simply built a chrysalis, and the beast that emerges will be less recognizable than you have become.

I am not angry with you, any more than you are with me. And yes, now that I consider it, I agree – we should get together again soon. We should collaborate again. We would both benefit from it, although the sacrifice is honestly all mine. I don’t begrudge you this – as I said, it is now become my duty to lay such foundations. It is a part of the growth that has been required of me. And, like the scaffolding left after renovation, my support shall diminish from those who need it so now. And then we shall shine together – though that reunion terrifies me.

You remain the largest enigma I have ever encountered. I cannot reconcile your cruelty with your selflessness. And, sometime, indeed I do yearn for your freedom. Though I would never pay what you have paid for that understanding. I will not again pass through that darkness voluntarily. Perhaps you have already made the larger sacrifice.

I must leave you with these thoughts. I will call upon you again soon, when Duty allows. I believe we have ears that want to hear, and eyes that are eager to read. I personally am ready to drink of that cup of wisdom that you have been filling so diligently these so many years.




“How do you spell emptiness?”

I asked and she held out her hand,

withdrew her heart,

and breathed my name.

“How do you draw alone

and afraid?”

I asked

and tore the colors from the sky.

I danced that night the dance of the trees,

the slow,

drawing of magic from the Earth

as I cried for the changes in my heart.

“No one dances together,”

she whispered,

again breathing my name,

again tasting my name in the wind.

“no one dances together,

and together is not…


she sighed,


“Look at me!”

I cried;

dull words that came back to me on that wind,

that most terrible wind.

“look at me and see me,

for my insanity is not of the surface.”

I glanced at my skin,

“cover me.”

The dance for that day,

again the dance of the trees

was meaningless in her eyes,

and she knew nothing,

only I knew.

The stars loved me that night,

and the moon touched the world

with her cold light –

there were no more colors to steal from the sky.

Afraid and alone melted in my knowledge

and she diminished to a shadow.

Here at the edge we are all the same,

and she diminished.

“you know nothing,

and have no wish to learn.

You know only of my emptiness,”

as the cure was lost with the colors

as the night awoke and scattered the day.

She knew nothing of nothing,

and still I believed her,

her honeyed voice of milk,

sliding the blade into my world –

I would not be that again.

The past is a story, a legend.

Remember tomorrow,

for thoughts of yesterday make you die.

“Do not wilt,”

I told her,

for already I had dreamt of fire

and of paradise falling.

“Do not think of the legend,

of what was or who I hoped to be,”

I grew enraged with futility

as her mind closed on false thought.

Drown this story,

forget these colors -the moon and the stars,

for fantasy shines form within,

and it is to the inside we must flee.

The inside is safe,

warm-fuzzy safe.

I go to the inside when I think of your name.

I go to watch the tragedy melt.

I go for the rivers.


I fell into the river that night

as she sang the similarities

between my name

and emptiness.

I pulled her down into the river to stop the song

and to find those colors.

I danced in the water,

again the dance of the trees,

and forgot of empty

and of words –

I forgot the difference.

I am there now,

sinking in the river,

forgetting yesterday and her stories.

I sink into peace.





foul mood fey and twisted with wroth.

I long for your consumption,

to be the burning, grinding, flaming end

to what little hope you have held,

what false projections

of justice and hope with which you color your visions.



breath of cruelty takes me,

smiling blackness over my shoulders peers,

whispering voices churning thought,

perversions disfigured,

come to me so that I may eat you up.


I long to twist.



An Obvious Descent

Awaking or Sleeping

Things fall to the ground and are spoiled.

If I stumble and fall,

I shall arise wounded

and dirty.

so I stand,



Things spiral

as music,

and I no longer look,

for I do not remember what to see.


Things fall and carry me with them

to that place where nothing works.

Where do they keep my dreams,

and how much to steal them back?

It’s wasted and worthless,

the battle to hold things aloft,

to keep them all where I want them,

yet how could I let my self stop caring?


I look down finally,

to see a plane above me,

broad even to the horizons.

I kept walking until I was below,

below down.

I stopped watching,

and now I see trees have bloomed

without whispering to me

of spring.

MY tree still sleeps and I must feel responsible.

I cannot feel the sway of the breeze

and I can no longer taste the stories of the rain.

Where did this water come from,

and why is it snowing?


I walk past my footsteps.

I want to know how I got down

and so how to find my way

back out.

But it has all been filtered

to that place

where nothing works.


yesterday is no longer a story,

but a riddle.

Sounds echo back,

“what did you do last night?”


This is it I say,


What does ‘it’ mean?

Questions to open,

caches blown to nothing.

“everything goes to nothing,

and we all race towards nothing,


But can they see down here,

with their giant eyes?”

Have I exchanged my ears

for these idiot ears?

Oh what I once had!

Oh, what I no longer remember!


Down here it is too bright.

These fallen things that trap me

trap the light as well.

The light lives here

(or is dying here,

growing stronger here,

who can tell?)

So I am blinded.

This place

(again where nothing works)

has no music,

and it is only this dull fucking light!

I have again strangled my muse,

evidence on this page,

for a slice of false peace.

I have much to say,

yet here I do not listen to myself.

False peace.

Promise now

(as I was a fallen fruit,

it is strange to taste the dying light)

I will.

But to redress is to work,

and this place invites sloth.


Now I see my dreams,

and where they have gone.

Now I see where my footsteps began.

You are there,

my pets,

and we will be together,

dancing while we damn the world

for her beauty and injustice.

How long did I practice?

How many deaths did I invite to discover that magic?

How could I have lost that embrace,

to fall so very low?

The magic can change this place,

make everything work.


I huddle here, searching,

probing these weaknesses.

I clutch those fallen things,

have they been discarded?

I clutch them to build.

I need that shell once more,

that magic-distance.

I can invite you in,

but I must construct it first

(I will disregard kindly,

that ‘you’ misplaced,

for this is only for me).

I must live it first.

Things have changed,


But I shall balance those evils

against this light-fallen-make-all-things-work magic.


Dance with me,

I say,

to me.

Dance with me and we will make the music return.

Dance down here,

between these fallen things,

indeed through them,

within them.

I know this place well,

how this nothing brings me my strength.

I use it.

I knead it.


I need it.

Read it.

Study it.

Learn you fucking dull bastard!

(again, as if in reference for myself later,

you is you).


Do I sense a repeat?

Or can I sincerely say, “only practice”?

Repeat – of necessity,

practice – again and again.

Tune it here,

where nothing works

and move those fallen things

to music.

With eyes closed, look at dreams,

They will not come while you are dieing,

so live to invite the return.

They are strength here,

the only life

in this dieing light

(remember the fallen things)

The hope that calls to the light,

the music.

Remember the little yellow piece of paper

and the magic you destroyed with it?

Bring back the dreams

and force them to stay.

Yes, I feel already the strength they impart,

the knowledge they have gained

during their slumber.

That dream is not of you,

but rather

working through you.

It is magic you dream from the world

(you here is I),

and which is controlled by spirit.


I return.

Again down here.

The loved me before,

those dreams,

but left them,

I let them go.

No I curse my false peace,

and call for that magic insanity!

Oh, but remember,

I must repeat-and-control

and fly-and-escape.

Did I think that land gone,

gladly celebrate its vanquish?

Do I remember higher purity?

Can I go back,

back from down here?


Down here is confusion.

I see I am lost.

There is no landscape,

for I have destroyed it.

There are only things fallen,

I see how they are in ruin.

Ruin of dreams

and of pain

and pf liberating insanity.

Gone are my mountains

and stars,

chilly streams and depthless lakes.

But I look to the sky

(for now a sky surely exists),

and I almost imagine the dark silhouette

of those ancient,

forgotten hills.

I nearly glimpse the faintest twinkle of stars,

yet all is as a dream of fever,

gone and scarred over.


Down here my strength is illusion.

I cannot see my foes,

for I am ignorant,

and thus they of me.

I push it all away,

I writhe myself inside.

I must hurt now,

and I cannot gladly invite.

I will rediscover the magic,

and I will keep it this time.


Down here it is gloomy,

my twisted smile barely reflects the light

that is afraid to look in my eyes.

I can now find my dreams,

I can now feel them bite.

I can again and find that madness.



I am coming back now.



a rose

I arose once the morning

the burning of Apollo’s shield melt away

arose once a rose,

the eclipse of Jupiter

from the smoke of the Departed,

the vial of ephemeral snow,

entrapped in memory, vision, and fantasy,

encased in glass, the recess of mind,

never to wilt, never to die,

nor to live, nor to grow, nor to joy in life,

simply isolated,

a rose arose from smoke to settle

to persevere,

the rose in my mind.



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Syl65's Blog

Poetry, music, creative writing and a desire to inspire....Isaiah 45:2-7 I will go before you and will level the mountains[a]; I will break down gates of bronze and cut through bars of iron. 3 I will give you hidden treasures, riches stored in secret places, so that you may know that I am the Lord

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