389. The Web

Each word read,

A simple thought,

Yet when one meets another;

A web forms of connected thoughts,

And abstract intricacies.

The web spreads,

To snatch and learn;

To glean each captured phrase.

Read, listen; Ever more yearn,

For universal truth.

Each architect,

Grasps and weaves,

As the scope ever increases.

The more learned, the more one grieves,

The endlessness of thought.

The web purveys,

And never ends;

As learning leads to wisdom;

And learning never ends,

So humans become victims.

Frantically.

Passionately.

Brains weave and contemplate,

Truths too vast in scope to be,

Contained in human bone.

Each word read,

A simple thought,

Yet when one joins another.

A web forms of connected thoughts,

And “Insanity’s” it’s name.

K. Aldaya, 3/15/17

Picture: Tomás Saraceno, Galaxy Forming along Filaments, like Droplets along the Strands of a Spider’s Web, at the Venice Biennial, 2009; http://theredlist.com/wiki-2-351-382-1160-1166-view-argentina-profile-saraceno-tomas.html

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361. The Mansion

There’s a mansion far away in a land of fabled form,

Where time holds no sway, and the clocks are still and worn.

Within it’s walls are halls of doors leading to secret rooms,

While a dark shadow patrols the floors spreading an air of gloom.

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Locked behind the doors there-in dwell feelings unexpressed;

Colored by established sin and furnished by the repressed.

One door is but a tiny speck within the stone foundation,

Of a house made of lies and brick, and stoic invalidation;

Where a girl forever smiles on in eternal denial,

Of the home her world is built upon, where she serves tea with a smile.

She serves truth upon a tray for people to consume….

The hours of her life away ’til she’s only what they assume.

Down below and through the door another door stands locked…

By the shadow on the floor of those halls forever stalked.

Behind: A glass interior exalts the ancient realm,

Of the forest nymphs of yore, and the tall majestic elm.

Days pass by for her who dwells under care of sun and moon,

And chants their protective spells…dancing ‘neath the light of the moon.

There she sits and beseeches the blackness gliding by,

Through a gap in the door she reaches, she simply must know, “Why”?

And each time the shadow swings by with his knife dripping with pain,

And cuts off her hand like a fly…being swatted: annoying; inane.

Then under the moon she stitches her hand back into place,

And weeps for those whose stitches only leave scars in their place.

Down the hall much further a door all pink and sweet,

Opens to toys which reconnoiter every pleasant childhood treat.

A girl sits with her toys playing without a care,

Avoiding the sneer of some toys toward a wall with a curtain hung there;

A curtain which opens once a day, as the shadow passes on through,

And each time she looks up to say,”That girl is not someone I knew!”

Then she continues her tale, imagining a world far away,

Where princesses under assail are rescued by knights straight away.

Beyond and through that mirror a gray room of concrete,

Chills and emits terror from the head, down to one’s feet.

A girl sits in the darkness in the corner with her bunny,

Begging for forgiveness, which the shadow just finds funny;

As he enters there freely, and screams echo pains.

Innocence costs dearly and blood always leaves stains.

The last door in the hallway is reinforced with steel.

Locked with a code each day. Yet, anger one cannot seal!

Anger builds to violent rage. Justice shall be avenged!

There is no door or cage which can restrain the unhinged.

She always finds a way out, that girl whose only goal,

Is to be ready beyond a doubt to put the demon back in his hole.

–The battle for eternal life,

For sanity or hell,

Is always fraught with pain and strife,

But, shh, be sure not to tell!

No one cares if someone claims,

Another’s soul as their domain,

And endlessly tortures and maims,

Until it drives them insane.

For the war is fought behind walls,

Built of blood and flesh,

And the shadow haunting the halls,

From the yesterdays men refresh.

Once a thief steals in,

Can one replace what’s gone?

Is everything replaceable,

After the deed is done?

Hearts beat within their separate walls,

Crying bloody tears,

Which stain the myriad halls,

Of minds o’erwrought with fears.

Insanity, it is a place,

And once you enter in,

Your’self’ is lost without a trace.

Cut apart, with a lively grin,

Into fragments with one face.

K. Aldaya, 8/12/16

Picture: Created by Whipper on Alpha Coders; https://wall.alphacoders.com/big.php?i=304198

325. Viral

Thank God they are crazy, right?

Or then you’d have to deal with it all:

The facts of life and death of souls…

Your own mortality, and lack of control.

Give them pills and call them insane.

Tell them their brains are at fault.

Don’t deal or learn from humanities’ mistakes.

Invalidate, manipulate, kill, and assault.

Thank God they were born defective,

So the truth you’ll never have to face:

That people like you fill the madhouses,

With the silenced voices of a viral race.

K. Aldaya, 12/28/15