Cluttered brainwork; befuddled musings.

I am disconsolate without doubt, withered by our estranged, ever-changing love. Pressed to forget the torments that have been scattered throughout the divisions of my brain, only to languish in the name of lost intrepidity. Still I must trace the outline of your lips; frustrations come and go like clouds. A broken voice spills out of your eyes; your windows, and your words could keep me locked away forever, yet your actions would amend my soul.

Stumbling forlorn on the scopic path.

I stagger among fallen Gods
in desolate barren lands.
Seething ammonia winds
imprint corneas visions
of immolated fire head virgins
and fiercing slaves,
collecting thistles and thorns
for their crowns.

The vices of my past
have shaded my bright skies black.
Burning eyes bend down upon me
as I labor in dead pastures
among felons and traitors.

Wild scattered eyes
pierce at my flesh.
Senses of enigma
bite at my trembling mind.
No angel in the sky
can bear the sight.

The keeper at the gate
once warned me of
this phantom ache.
This free falling cascade
of impending doom,
should I choose to be misled.

Oh, how I should have listened.

XCIX - Life - 1924.

A short, sweet poem from the mind of Emily Dickinson (1830–86).

There is no frigate like a book
to take us lands away,
nor any coursers like a page
of prancing poetry.

This traverse may the poorest
take without oppress of toll;
how frugal is the chariot

that bears a human soul!