Santa Ponsa

To what does the mind aspire?
a sweet, temporary attire

laced in a stench of
inebriation and
a subtle coaxing of
feral instincts
to sooth the brain
yet poison it?

Is this the pinnacle of being?
Every complexity -
confused moments in linear
progressive distorted time -
best spent accumulating
temporary egoisms?

If that is the sum of existence,
strike my name from residency
and dress me like a clown
in an asylum.