Strung Out

There is such a thing as feeling too much,
becoming too aware. High-wired and high
strung, and nerves too brightly fired. Never
tired enough to really sleep. He merely
eased himself into the other side, becoming
yet another springtime breeze.

His mind was warped by all the drugs he
used; his shields were disintegrating.
The mask he wore - insouciant;
while there inside himself, reality
kept whispering "insane."

Never catch up, they will never catch me.
He chanted these words as he flew
o'er the seas, where oceanic waves
would cower at his slightest glance.
There he danced within the mists
of all eternity.

Impossibility became the fame that
he achieved; as wild and free, he moved
into a future fantasy. Oils of softy-scented
masculinity, gleamed teasingly within
each living pore. Crystallized, enchanting
sprites of pure delight danced through
his every vein.

Downward glide, there was no crash;
feather-light, he took a stance of utter
incredulity each time he strutted
down the street. Energy became
his slave, and he its only master.

Particles - free floating waves of
undulating prophesy - became a
probability because of him. Another
peak and worlds they'd never seen
before, were opened up within the
gleam of his bright eyes.

Too late, too late, he came to pay
his dues to his true love. Flowers
on her grave - somehow, that's all
that he had left to give her then...

? Michaelette ?

10/28/2001
Copyright© 2001 Michaelette L. Romano
All Rights Reserved
Take me home...