Satan’s Nightmares

Satans Nightmares prose poem

Photo by Sam-Cat

The grass is a little greener and diamonds
are made not of coal but a fabric the earth
mother sews up, as the stars burn into a little
pinch of ash that rains upon the thirsty One
* * *
hell is a temple to happiness
* * *
All existence is delirium
the cows are mad and the horses are mad
the mad books written by the maddest of
souls speak of a corner tucked in the brain
that is utterly, totally, magnificently mad,
the songs are mad, the government is mad
the mad farmer sows his mad seed before
he joins the circle of mad people in the madhouse,
as they ponder over the difference between a raven
and a writing desk forevermore and the mad monk
sways under the storm screaming asteroids into himself,
his body is made of the moon
* * *
The sky is whispering to a rapturous bird
there is a secret hidden among the leaves of all stories
it bursts into rain with the need to be told,
the secret is in the flight of the butterfly,
in bubbles blown out of soap ,
in the immortal sun that all stories revolve around
and the secret is to listen, to listen,
to listen

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20, Indian, English Major. Just getting out of the Second Existentialist Crisis.
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