Twisted bindings
tied to contorted impressions,
stagnate all visceral contemplations.
The hall of mirrors reflects
Medusas stony glare.
Amputation seems key
to the destructive thoughts
releasing a mane of serpents
feasting on bewildered souls
Vermin gnaw on the weary prey
with a plague of fungal revelations
blinding vision of clarification
leaving a cesspool of swirling debris
no rungs to climb
no cover to remove
for a touch at light of day.
Just pitch and musty scents
of decomposing hope,
and optimistic paintings
Framed mind or Frame of Mind?
One permanent
One subject to change
If choice be told
preference of later over former
yet locked am I
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