Reflections In Muses

Am I insane?  Blessed with trials  of unclean angels  perfected with imperfection,  mirrors of experience  reflected in a cracked iris.  The holy face that follows  comforts and watches over  with a holy smile radiating  in stark starry sleepless  pre-dawn mornings intertwined  in long walks to nowhere  from Yuma to the Middle East  with notebooks of noble philosophy  holding hard against supernova  storm clouds that sway blindly  into unknown fiery revelations.  Murdered with angry shotguns  on the brink of failed hope  as thousands and thousands of  trumpeted bugles scream down hills  in complete darkness one can only  discover in slippery black sand.  Slipping away on credit  in imagined Spanish avenues  that continue on until irrelevance  is no longer a petty comfort  to watch pretty girls  dance on giddy toes  refraining "This is how I am"  thinking about strategy, conquest  the science of sex, and  the next fix.  This is for you Priya Shah  This is for you John Caltagirone  This is for you John Bouse  because this life is not for  petty meaningless us, we  pointless chroniclers of  what we strive to be with  words destined to fade slowly  in the utter blankness  of pre-dawn mornings cursed  with the comfort of self-important  tarnished abstraction obssesed  with structure, form, and  stark raving expression.  Without you we are nothing.