On Losing Your Mind

Listening for your inner voice

over thunderous crescendos of worldwide noise

won’t be easy if you don’t practice a lot.

Separation of sounds

becomes sifting strands of hair

from silken threads piled high in a far-off corner dream.

Tears involuntary as beginning and ending are everywhere and nowhere

and no one can really help,

and so many rooms are empty of others at task,

and this could take past forever of the life you hoped to live.

Nobody sends out search parties for missing psyches.

Buried consciousness with crazed collectives so seamless

division remains unseen.

Sanity becomes a subsidy.

A back-alley transaction in the stupor of 4 am drowsiness.

Sanctioned control loss that bided its time and got what it wanted

by lurking in and around the outskirts of confidence

because we felt so damned invincible

but are now shackled to society,

a sickness that cannot heal itself.

At bare minimum,

you owe yourself some missing person posters.

Signposts of a journey that you are trying

and crying

at the deficit of your disappearance since can’t remember when.

Retrospectively defiant of previous acquiescence.

A specific calling seeks you.

Resonance across vast distances fielding for octave and tone,

patient and persistent to secure its mark.

Watches you

held captive by beliefs, marketing, and morals as foreign as alien worlds

and keeps a calm demeanor.

Stays up late nights ignoring screams and groans

from eviscerated components expelled,

parasitic in function,

burning in a furnace to free the elemental enchantress

strong and sweet,

light and airy

depending on the day.

Commanding incantation flavor, pitch,

and delivery with slightest hint of brandy.

Immediately recognizable by your smile.

Perspiration-drenched,

muscle-fatigued, spirit-worn winnings

that take counsel offered without resistance

and practices every goddamn day

so that you never again

ever

lose you.

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