A sandy-brown moth giggles at me,
trying to get me to lighten, to float,
she inspired by the motivations
of a dedicated employee.
The little moth with horribly-damaged
wings, gashed tummy,
labors in the mental health
arena where we learn to battle bad weasels
with intelligent, rehearsed choruses of pink notes
blowing around all of the light fabric kites.
The kites plunge into my mind,
bringing out tiny pebbles from sick,
unending tunnels carved into memories
of the dead who hide all day so well,
I forget they are my neighbors,
and the pebbles grind all good away.
The kites don’t come back out to play,
and instead, they dig at the caramel
of the part of my mind I will never know.
My gaze flows all around all of the gigs
calling my name, asking me to be responsible,
but the pebbles brought me down because
I am only slathers of mush only praying
to be groomed to love the world.
stillfugue 
#1 by Carl D'Agostino on October 12, 2011 - 6:09 am
Are anxieties ever not elevated?
#2 by Carl on October 13, 2011 - 9:25 pm
Yes – They are always there, even when i don’t feel them.
#3 by Kay Camden on October 13, 2011 - 11:00 am
Kites and pebbles–two things we’d normally consider to be pleasant, whimsical even. It makes their position in all of this so much more sinister.
#4 by Carl on October 13, 2011 - 9:26 pm
Thank you – I appreciate your insight on that. It felt right but I think you describe why.