Wrong till Now

Think that I've been so very wrong. 

To think, oh to think - that I could out run all the angry mobs. The angered, clawing, mobs that wreak and stink of the decayed remnants of every sacrifice I made to be. 

Made to be the ever-loving humble servant. Made to bend, and dance, and stroke and seduce to succeed in having every single one. 

So that every single one moans as bones crack, like cigarette heads broken in the muddied snow, immediately exhaling and knowing that the thing has ended. 

I know that it ended.

I know every day that it did and I can't - I can't afford the cost of a carton of startings-again, can't afford the welled up eyes from new architectural layouts of where I practiced, where I prophesied.

Where, that I was loved. 

And on the mob does fall about my very feet, when I sleep - and think (stop thinking!) - that the sheets are much too thin, the space much too close…and the air does rip-tear in open silence. So I do stutter at the sight - of the looming decision, glowing with green eyes through the French window pane. 

Cack! Cackcackcack! goes the beastly leader. 

I want it no much longer. Want it all settled in the death I made for it one night - when I turned, and sighed, looked her in the eyes and said "Let's go".

Let's go on from this bio trance - and break it all in stomping riotous flailings. 

I've torn to bits a part or two. 

And now they whimper still. 

Whimperings do say that joyous motions mean finally actually opening the vine-covered ruins.

And that's where I've been so very wrong, suffocating the very best and beautiful. 

Suffocating the heads of wonderful, weird ideas.

So instead let us skip down the merry lane lined with tall black iron fences. 

Let us all just merrily be! 

That does not "mean" a merry thing, but that we can just breathe in the smell of roasted feasts and hearty wines…to mask all of that decay.