Darkest Of The Hillside Thickets Blackout
Like a spell, like a stroke, like a kick in the head,
it’s like the throes of an epileptic seizure. Like the
crud that you feel after sleeping for days
Like a dream, like a trip, like a drug-induced haze
And I recall only little bits and pieces of vague
similitudes that my instinct says are not even mine
Like a slope, like a maze, like a bottomless pit
winding around in a secret combination. Like the strain
that you make trying to figure it out
Like a death, like a gap, like a watery grave and all I
hear is impossible distorted impressions of a world
that I’m positive is not even mine.
I knew a thing or two until the time strange outer
forces wasted my tiny mind. I could not stop it
Like an edge, like a void, like a limitless fall;
entire lives spent in constant isolation. Like a shard
from a frozen shattered aeon of time
Like a voice, like a crack, like a whispering shriek
that echoes on like it’s carpet-bombing feverish white
jungles of thought that I’m positive are not even mine.
How long have I been gone, tucked down inside this
limbo while
my dreams are crushing me? Enormous gulfs enormous
glyphs enormous galleries. Fragmented visions of a
nightmare city full of cone-shaped beings and me
