03-17-2011, 08:21 PM
The demented laugh of a stung hyena.
Laughing at nothing, at a wall,
at a chair,
moving through the alleyways
of stacked bookshelves, like a ghost
in a bad Gothic tome,
hissing and steaming like a kettle with mirth,
rising from mills of sorrow,
a poppy on a battlefield.
Return then to the house of mourning,
an exchange of masks, the hurried actor
in a one man epic, playing both peasent and prince.
Then as the brain spins like fresh candy floss
the encore goes on,
until all the players are dead.
Laughing at nothing, at a wall,
at a chair,
moving through the alleyways
of stacked bookshelves, like a ghost
in a bad Gothic tome,
hissing and steaming like a kettle with mirth,
rising from mills of sorrow,
a poppy on a battlefield.
Return then to the house of mourning,
an exchange of masks, the hurried actor
in a one man epic, playing both peasent and prince.
Then as the brain spins like fresh candy floss
the encore goes on,
until all the players are dead.
"We believe that we invent symbols. The truth is that they invent us; we are their creatures, shaped by their hard, defining edges." - Gene Wolfe