all-out sorrows arrow

He stands in a psychoclone, cyclone, hurricane of thoughts that have taught him
That they are simply a malformed maelstrom skull and cross trombone, dropping all pretensions and moving straight to and toward the storm.

A stirring, sweltering, swirling pot and space of notions, a cosmos of propositions
But mostly it is he alone in the wide, expansive done of he and he alone
With surroundings being somewhat sparse.

The dream swallow, all are gathered in the invisible
The abominable for an all-out sorrows arrow report
All-out assault.

But the dream continues, goes on
And is repeated time and time again
Like a recurring riddle of bullets
From a gun one cannot avoid
No matter how much
How hard one tries.

The amalgamation nation
The suffering station
And when one wakes to a world so full…

It never feels like one left the spaces
Provided by that dream…