A Lurid Loss of Frustrated Thoughts

Tipping, dipping, lifting beyond limitations

The rhymes that timed me to the drudgery of mundane feet
beating their cleets to the conventional intentional
Drone of the zone where the dreams narry go,

Left slow, and tight, like a wire wrapped thrice in the night
Through the nose, where it goes
to keep dreams bound up right.

I would baudy shout, play;
I knew joy was within me.
The sin of the Djinn
who convinced me to
modestly squander each
passing joy
to silent long, and aching
noiseless surrender,

almost rendered me blander,
Than that french toast from last
Thursday;
{And there Is more to be said about that;}

Like digressions, the sessions of my mind began to rhyme with convenience, and the
Hollow tones of efficiency.
Dead by degrees, and nobody missed me.

We've done something stilling,
this life of surrender;
Why render a good willing care about anything?

If the movie rights, only sell at half price,
and the ticket sales, are only by percent,
and the day they screen it, isn't on your holiday,
and you can't half breathe anyway, because of your rent,

And every six minutes someone sneezes in the back,
and something, something is terribly wrong with the color balance...

Why, by the by, do we pull the dance shoes over our already tired feet at the end of the day,
And break blisters as we dance our way
Back and forth the fourteen feet of our humble lofts,
while the neighbors scoff at those still alive,
not ghost who are trying to buy a living...

There's something swimming in the air with me tonight;
And it won't tell if it's wrong, or if it's right.
But my tired feet are dancing, dancing across the wooden floor
where the piles don't dare to go,
and the boots are finally resting their cleeted beats,
and there's a breathless, endless new,
tomorrow.