A Hopeless Delight

A story penned in the eye of a storm is an act of erudition;
a hopeless delight.
Yes, it is true that madness begins in the quiet, at home,
and genius mutates and sparkles on its own.

But lunacy is rendered useless when it deserves to be pedestaled.
The right time to tell the crowd not to touch you
–as you’re full of coyotes–
never seems to bloom like it does in the movies.

Alone is where my thoughts become unadulterated liquid magnesium,
slacklining across the void of my forehead with tension and toil.
It’s there that I perch on eight toes over a Brobdingnagian cascade
that vacuums into oblivion – and it’s there that I find peace.