Like patchwork, did the brownish-black
Fade onto pearlescent face,
Scarred in some moonlight pale,
And cratered within a hollow soul:
Past and mottled pain.
Methodologically counting, wondering
After evils as they drift into the shapes
Of visions: chairs overturning,
Slamming books, the fury of a headache.
All these are iron chokers:
Black mirrors echo,
Shatter with such a reflection of debt,
To the undeserved takes time, takes
The subsequent distraught.
It is, that imperfect face, an
Inhuman mask, interlocking figures
At the growth of interlocking
Villainies; as such marks of sleepless
Nights flow on and on,
Day to day passing in a rush of tireless
Tears falling. Patchwork-
It is not beauty, but madness.