Locked up
and immobilized
inside the frightened Psyche’s
ill-disguised
psych ward,
Imagination plays along
while surreptitiously
imagining a bomb –
a face-ball
so replete with coded
insurrection
and imploded
incrementally
upwelling rage
behind
a parti-colored cage
adorned with variously
glazed expressions –
so apparently the picture
of benign impressions –
that the Psyche cannot
know Imagination will
before long
violently kill
and leave the whole thing
shredded, bloody, chopped.
Vision isn’t pretty
when it’s stopped.
.
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