The Tower

Searching for the answer in a dark, bleak night… pistons are thrumming in my brain, crickets are strumming in the grass, and the sky is singing like a demon—a deep and powerful spirit that tosses the stars across Earth’s ceiling in little strands of diamonds… I cannot wake from a septic slumber that tickles my receptors, ambles my eyes, and keeps me from recognizing the mistakes that I’ve made—they are numerous, and they are acute… stabbing my pride with plain, cold realities like Medusa mottling me into marble… I carry things that need not concern me nor the people with whom I associate… heavy with doubt, and racked with shame… I try to breathe—I do… but the residue is crushing me as if I were standing mute at a witch trial, and I confess… I do feel different, unique in a pathetic kind of way, singular in a youth that stretches farther than it should for any soul my age—not the happy-go-lucky newness that seeps into all your pours like an electric sponge, but the old kind… ready for a tower change, but not ready for all the judder and jounce that accompanies it—rage like a beast, bolts that light up any void one could imagine!