Schizophrenia

I am hard as ice, and yet so full of feeling that I am almost sentimental.
--August Strindberg

The poet disappears (this is absolutely the discovery of our time).
--Stephane Mallarme


The light through the window, fragmented, reminded him that his
Fate was clear, unforgiving, and irritating; to find his way
Through the darkness, thrashing through a jungle, a symphony
Of discordance, as his life was raising a purposeful question.
One of which there is no answer, one of which like the many
Permutations of God, are unspeakable—a raging pain through
His head, reeling in elementary delight as he does another line,
Feeling nothing, but everything—at once, with a delusional system
To back up the regimen, not sleeping, not eating, not thinking:
A complete shut off of the senses.

Music seemed to have its own power then,
Those days when the connections fit,
But anti-paranoia left him defenseless and fretful
Of the leviathan he was about to unleash—
Like a fire in the sky; like a meteor Earth bound,
He could feel it inside him, his extra-human spark,
To once-and-for all hide away from the pain—
To finally sit with the angels, dine with the Saints,
But his life wasn’t incorruptible, not at all, he was failing
To meet the requirements to justify his existence, he was
Losing sleep over selfish goals, inverted reactions—
So he lets the music play on inside his mind, the trumpets
And the percussion were especially aurally-pleasing,
But looming death gathered her crowd.