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Monsters in plain view are only reflections that have manifested from theoretical mirrors. Their just pallid ghosts playing dress up in clothes they once wore at a time where modest romance and meager sins would not be pigeonholed. Emotions breathe through microphones of static and are tied into chords that string elapsed hearts to wane, depict choler, or passion unto the sublime ether, and no matter the shade that scalds a mute, yet spectral tongue. It does not flap in slurs, or governs sardonic spit of mottled ink. Yes, we are all mad in our indifference and such folly trails will print a path to our inevitable sepulcher, but not until we stamp our parable. Philosophical poetry- the emancipation valves to our moral renaissance. Words that are expressed from behind an iron casted sculpture are the odes to coerce the scissor-tailed devils from the shadows, and sweep apart dust-bunny poltergeists. The greasepaint is a substance that smears atop the nebulous mars we convey, and always will the cat chase the rat, as will poetry tend to raw inkling, the proper red in my veins. This is my voice. This is my edifice of expression.
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