It’s not that I don’t have the words for it,
but that there’s no one around to hear it.
And words are lonely wisps, alive
only in the eyes of the observer.
There is a fresh word for this insanity now,
they call it rapid cycle bipolar disorder.
No-one else heard its name though, but you,
and so
you host alone its omniety.
Not that it matters very much because living is performing,
so who cares what your strings are made of,
stuffed with candied clouds and lightening and viscera.
At the end of your undulating life.
Charred remains.
#00117F 