Fog

It is strange that melancholy,
Although sounding like a tummy-disease of melon,
Is just, a crack that lets in neon lightning
On an azure collage. Your tummy
Collects blue butterflies, into a disorder,
A slope that goes along to the abysses,
Defining you, as a lepidopterist,
Who grows mulberry trees inside his gut,
Where little worms live inside cocoons,
Searching for elusive wings.
In this programmed inertia
You can only look at your blue ceiling
Day after day, to learn that it
Keeps getting farther away from you,
Almost as if, you’re giving up the struggle.
The slope is just as cold, as the nearest friend,
Or the cruelest fate. Unlike physical
Ailments, leach therapy will not suck
Bad energies, or any infective strain,
Right out of circulation. The mind was supposed
To be a beautiful spaghetti dish,
Not the tender breast of a green lemon.

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