In sane

I often marvel at the tenuous
Thread that is sanity,
When we trudge through a strenuous
Existence like a gasping manatee
Slipping through a toxic sludge.

Oh this cursed state of self-aware
That has us asking
What? How? Why? Where?
And leaves us masking
Our ignorance with petty deeds.

As if the rain outside
Or the comforts of our friends
Are anything but besides
The point, meaningless trends,
For which no truths ring.

And so I remain, seeking bliss,
Blindness in dark rooms,
Though even this
Cannot quiet the pervasive boom,
Of mindfulness.

In dreams, though, we live;
We roam through kingdoms, through fabled lands,
We are overlords, we can demand: “Give!”
“Place the purpose in my outstretched hands!”
And they do.

In dreams, we are the wolf and we are the hare,
We are the predator and the prey;
We are the strands that connect everything, everywhere,
We are the brisk wind that whisks doubts away.
We are, indeed, the metaphor.

In dreams, we are unintelligible, amorphous,
Our hands blur before our eyes
While we grasp at blades of grass, themselves porous,
And yet, despite this, we surmise
Far more than we do in waking lands.

In dreams we are given a shake,
A nudge, our eyes are someplace drawn
And perhaps we know which route to take,
But we drop into the precipice of dawn,
Awake, and resume our trudge.

It always slips,
Our grip, it slips.
What remains are questions,
Like bastions
Of doubt.


2 thoughts on “In sane

  1. poetry comeback! I’ve also got one up my sleeve that isn’t quite ready. Did I mention that I liked it (particularly “Place the purpose in my outstretched hands!”). The whole thing is honestly quite good and reminded me of a few classics. Check em out!

    “And I hold within my hand
    Grains of the golden sand-
    How few! yet how they creep
    Through my fingers to the deep”

    and 2)

    Grab a book of lovecraft stories if you ever want to read somewhat purple prose about unspeakable horrors

    • Forget the poetry, you always have an apt reference up your sleeve. Thanks Mr. Leopardman. Eagerly awaiting your poetry, or prose, or whatever form your work takes.

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