fauxcroft

Taut are the sinews and fibres

Intertwined neural synapses are flexed,

Stretched are the muscular reflex

As premonition echo in the head,

The conflux of so much confusion

Gripped within emasculated dreams,

The subtle neuroses of being

Are like necrosis eating everything,

As the symbolic transparency starts shimmering

Initiating a consciousness scheme,

Rigid is the state of this moment

As if rigor mortis had just set in,

Like sleep paralyzed by connections

That have been triggered within my brain,

There is no sight or sound of movement

I am I now dead or have I just gone insane.