the truth doth stand, an iron sentinel,while I, poor soul, wrestle gods of smoke.
Amada Paul Israel@israelamadapaul172464
3 days ago
PSYCHOFECTION
Delusional affection, thou phantom bride,
Thou dost haunt the marrow of my thought,
Where shadows don the garments of devotion,
And silence whispers oracles of love.
Lo! resistance
a clash, a gnashing, flint on flint,
the truth doth stand, an iron sentinel,
while I, poor soul, wrestle gods of smoke.
Stable resistance, hashy-clash friction!
O cosmos, dost thou mock my burning vein?
For every “nay” I hear, I twist to “yea,”
and every closed gate blossoms into a shrine.
Distortional crush, internal psychofection,
Behold! A fever of the skull,
where the heart, drunk on its own invention,
builds citadels of passion in the sand.
Thus am I both prophet and fool:
in love with a ghost of my own conjuring,
a worshipper at the altar of mirage,
crying “thou lov’st me!”
when the stars themselves stand mute.
