eventually, it’s all a game
shuffling numbers through gates
and pulses of lightning
through arborized tangles

just for the sound of it
the way the tongue slides, curves and flexes
the throat rattles, hums, thrums

sing a song of sixpence, pocket full of rye

this dizzy dance
of meaning and sound separating
then in close embrace
meaning flirts with the silly sing-song noises
teases, leaving to the imagination
escapes the ballroom at midnight, leaving behind only a glass slipper
an idea
the words crowd around, trying to see if it fits
barely avoiding shattering it in tiny sharp shards
meaning’s fragrance lingers, the memories fading
only the transient joy, when I held you in my arms
takes root in the mind
idée fixe

like a stray electric current
causing an errant magnetic field
everything swirls and spins around it
circling the drain
toilet bowl flushing
vital fluids fleeing the body
prepare to evacuate
the light at the end of the tunnel beckons

sometimes all it takes is an electric shock
a veritable bolt of lightning
to realize that it’s all in your mind
to realize that no matter what you do in the world
or what it does to you
everything that is, as far as you’re concerned
lies painted in impressionistic strokes
across a canvas of convoluted, grey goo
lurking somewhere behind your eyes