Another sleepless night,
because a face won't leave.
Or do I tempt it to stay.
A race begins.
The heart.
The mind.
The spirit.
All thrown round the corners.
You grip as tight as you can,
daring to push further and further.
You move towards catastrophe,
and immortality,
each a side of the razor's edge.
When there's no time for fear,
primal instinct is your guide.
It is wild
and savage
and free!
The moment passes,
leaving you skittering out!
Out into the unknown black.
When certainty is gone,
she lets you know what it feels to be alive. 

A red splash on a canvas,
that was covered in dreary brown,
heavy black,
mildew yellow,
shocks the senses.
The monotonous colors smeared high,
like mountains of Mordor,
sludge the the once white sheet.
In them life is a spiritless trek.
One that most know and accept,
confined for so long in a bland prison.
But the red is new,
something primal,
yet long forgotten.
Like fresh blood,
or the smell of sex in the air.
It sings deep into the caverns.
To hearken it's call,
is to give in to assured destruction.
To not is living death.

Stuck in a job with dirty walls.
Peeling plaster and cheap wallpaper
accompany me. 
The T.v. is showing
another commercial
that I do not wish to see.
It's telling me, while selling me,
a lifestyle of now.
I look at the fixings, the unhinged door,
and the escape box on my wall.
I close my eyes and think of trees in the fall,
someplace that I've been before. 

Writing, like bad poetry comes from the ego.
I do not know how to strip it naked.
The false promises of the world whispered by snake oil.
It doesn't go up or down.
And the end.

Curtains move with a breeze.
The light plays on the wall.
First, full sail. Then closed modern robe.
The hot sweat sex, leaves the sheets damp.
Or the sick body shivers and sweats.
Parallels of a diseased mind.

I speak not of holy harmony,
for I have only glanced that way.