It's all a fib, ink from a nib, my dreams are weird obscene. Concentrated diagonally are concentric lines, the observer is not there in the scene.
The scale of what is there, here, or near are confabulations of convenience. Nature, or what stands in for it, in reality, it can never make any sense.
We only see or hear what is meant. By a past of needs, the sun, and the rain. Nothing is what it seems. A construct of our senses in our brain.
The moonlit night and the sonata. The depression unnerves my being. I sense the disquieting sound of madness.The onset of my manic fling.
In curves of up, in waves of down, I straddle the waves of the rough sea.The voices of reason are muted, by the cackling of cacophonous glee.
The shadows outgrow the stairs, the staircase climbs into the darkness of my mind. I've lost my moorings, I see myself going blind.
The walls cave in. I close my eyes, smiling. Misery loves my company. The rituals are rote; a lump in my throat, every crepitation is an assumed mutiny.
