Mischief in the making.

i tell myself:
there will be an end to my guttered mind
i will soon see the gap in which the current tumbles


but my mind,
it likes to drag itself out ; prolonged thoughts
like tired red carpet for the marvel and trampling


i tell myself:
these thoughts, ill let them ponder then die
like wingless birds stranded in lava lands


   and those yellow and orange tongues
they lick me raw once again


but my mind ;
is a fascinating procrastination
of a horror's whirlpool winds


beauty:
in its own existence. ill let it live
like optimistic daises on a lone field of graves.