They say to close your mouth and open
your eyes to the wonder(land)
but we are blind to all but the heart(ache/break)
green eyes lost in a shell of black
black in the soul and the eyes and the
bones of a lackadaisical heroine
amid the weariness of breath

Here the books have faces
and places
and smoke has a voice whispering in my ear
of goblins and ghouls and the devils of day
but I prefer the night.

And there are long pipes made of glass
and enigma(tic smiles)
that leak dreams of psychedelia
& papier-mâché clouds of three-eyed felines with claws dripping in venom
& halls lined with men without mouths and the last vestiges of spirit free from
the ever-turning [emotionally volatile
hormonal teenager]-esque world where the only steadfast companion is the infinitely faceted daughter of Doubt and
Faithlessness:
Change.

The hunters go out with their hounds and their spidey senses but
still there is no true escape to be found
no way out of the paralysis that is life
and the universe
and everything,
the paradox of our endless contradiction
as we drag
our ailing, wailing minds forward on
the highway
to bliss {noun: an undefinable solace
of clarity and peace disagreed by all
who share}

so the cries of the lonely echo between
my ears and above my throat
and there’s a loudness to the murmurs smudged beneath my skin and around
my eyes

and malaise in the fumes of musk and jasmine
creeping over my lip in gray mist
yet an eye-corner glimpse
and the trace of a whisper
reveal in this muddled, blurry existence
one
angel
alone