A Madhouse

The sound of water almost uncanny,
 A plastic bag bloats and floats
 like a memory of thoughts
 piled and halved beneath,
 my sagging skin of skins.
 The room is a liquid gel
 with my thoughts arrested,
 sleek and colourful.

Water Ripples
 my thoughts bifurcate further
 With tunes of melancholy
 and cascading mystical languages.
 It's supernatural.
 To observe the stagnant darkness
 with my crisp white eyes
 A twig eating another twig.

I sit and scream
 in the slivers of time
 piercing through this vacuum body,
 I hear rumbling of sky
 detonating my body vapours
 I nourish the thoughts
 like a cotton swab
 softly, piling and weeding.
 It's almost ethereal.
®MVS

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