Half-Cognative

A Poem by Farblade

Another one of my blanked-out poems. No real sense to it, just a piece of gathered thought.

Where are we? Swollen blossoms of star-masses, stitting on the pale sidewalk of a Monday afternoon?

What is it with this thing called love? Where hearts impale themselves on pikes, bloody for the world to see a death-dream waiting on the sick fanale of red sadnes? Melancholy, I think thereof.

To negate such chaos is folly. Reach a little deeper into the abyss for some equilibrium.

And we stare, wicked dogs on an empty storm. The silence is maddening, yet when words are found they are lost within an instant. Do you seek the vision? What, for it is mine, for the end of your days is soon.

Its all cognative, at least half-cognative. We wonder if this is real, not some concoction from the right side of our brain, and laugh. How dare we allow the thought of nonsense its first breath? For shame, dear child, for shame. Go see a shrink.

And to this this all started off with one word. Why.