Archaic Beauty

The passage of time was once diagnosed with schizophrenia
Which developed from a pause in the beholder of your dreams.
Your world is not a universe,
Slipping between the cracks
Of irrationally patterned broken mirrors.

An archaic beauty dances in the trees,
Drowning in the psychotic rhetorical questions
Of personal appeal and elmination,
Parallel structural injection,
And illusions, menacing.

The in-depth viewpoints
Of the mind in disguise
Reflects the shining dull patterns
And transformations
That were torn from the inside.

Drunk from the scent of her stagnant perfume,
Floating away in a world of parallel dreams.
Living a life of imitation
Cannot be ashamed by Mother April.

Hiding in the light,
Blinded by the shadows
Written in the subtext,
Ending a prologue to misery.
The rhetoric is on fire.
Your souls are burning
Like a snowy day in June,
Where those who rest
Will not awake.