The Ghost of an Echo: A Mad Collection of Mad Poet Poetry

tell me my tale

I feel stranded beneath rotting sand and black solar ash,

bursting galaxies astronomically far, impossible to catch

into the fine, burnt-sugar of clouds misting my toes, catching my pain like frostbites in silver webs and silver stars

that collide with the ground in brief summers, a tale for another time, embraced in inky tar

I hope to reach so far every bone will stretch until it is scraping the universe

and the roar ripped from beneath every overworked tendon is sent out into a cold, infinite vacuum of space, peering curiously at its ugly birth;

we are nothing, nothing but mere extreme earthworms tentatively poking out of the ground, disturbing a spot of dirt, all so in pain

pink bubblegums popped off of cherry lips and the colours are distorted through a mind gone titanically insane, so

I dream of metal encases meant for smoky, grinning skulls that once dreamed of the impossible, another tell, another tale, another time

like the exhilaration of rainbows bursting across ash-streaked skies, brighter than a thousand flashlights––a butterflies' sublime––and it's a

a salty-sweet second where sound buries itself in a molten core and love is like gumdrops spilling from the sky

I hope, I hope, I hope to catch this second, this moment, this experience of culmination, like a net that scoops up fallen stars

once upon a time