Starched Bedsheets

I find no consolation between
starched bedsheets, flowers  
cumbersome are long gone,
preserved,  propped up without
their  fragrance.

Sound,  without color only the
stirring of the ants who have
made my mind their home
with organized confusion.
They create  a masterpiece
 begging me to navigate some
lost horizon where they wear
the crowns of kings.

Drops of champagne tear
from sleepy eyes, dried into
crystal dust  stored for
tomorrows grief .
 Wool from black sheep cover
 the backs of red birds who only
 sing at midnight, when all green
flies are peacefully sleeping
within a casserole dish

Tonight I will rest with squirrels without fleas as they gaze into
 a charming mirror hoping to
 know what only calico feline
knows looking into her blue
eyes of truth she has no voice
to tell  

They say it's wrong of me  
to think this way that I will
 lose myself in my fantasy
I say,  this is where I am
 happy
This is where I am me.
 On the brink of insanity
where the sane would not
dare to dream what I dream

An escape of the reality
Hidden behind a rivoted
brass handle  where memories
of you cannot escape.
Dark dank,  basement thoughts, sprawled out,  perched in corners, hung from rafters, that drip.
Wet secrets sopped up with
flaccid skin.
Burnt, branded,  infected shoe
printson soft new flesh, screams
under moldy dust that settles.

The comforting stench of my
dungeon now painted
 pastel colors that conceal your
deeds but, the smell
of shit on your breath lingers

Is my alternative