Drycicles

Last night the snow started singing,

Initially it was just noise and riot, riot and rage

Rage and fury

That whipped through this whirlwind,

The lunar chariot driven by

Winged horses of wind at my window

Luring, securing what’s now a mighty

Fortress of Snow

The polar armadas marched below, in an

Invasion of privacy of the earth, frozen solid

Sullen it was just before cracking fragile

Crusts of ice; it was nice to behold

Even nicer to listen to their song, yielding

Words never uttered, forgotten,

Untold.

Mr. Black goes to jail

Smiling enigmatically at his judge and jurors

At the policemen

At the door-keeper

He still looks impeccable, his suit

The colour of void, of

Midnight

Starting right now, Mr. Black is a

Convicted

Felon

Strip him down, inmates

Take that shiny painting off, and wipe

That

Smirk

Off

His

Face

There is a cure for everything if you want to forget,

We have the blue pills, the red and the yellow,

The white ones will set your consciousness

On reset

And so we’ll get to say “hello”

More often

Come in our shop of emotional pharmacy,

What does ail you, we’ll fix, we create new beginnings

And we tie the loose ends with shoe-strings and lead

Pinnings

In a dufus expansion of

Bureaucracy.

Are you new to this concept of mental disorder?

Here’s the one-oh-one on how to learn to be mad

To be curious, delusional, catatonic, or

Sad.

Once you’ve come over, there is no return

Just a nice green alley of blossoming flowers

That just refuse to

Burn