Ode to the Unspooling

Romancism is on the ectasy.

A chemical spill in the synapse sea.

My mind’s not thinking—it’s ogling Words,

watching them preen in gilded, absurd

flocks that don’t fly but dissolve into light,

drowning the sane in the long, liquid night.

It’s not a feeling. It’s a frequency hum,

a swallowed sun where new galaxies come

from the friction of “what if” and “almost” and “nearly.”

The world gets so sharp, and also so smeary.

I’m loose in the logic, a ghost in the machine,

painting tomorrow with a gloss I can’t mean.

This is the audit where all the books burn.

This is the current that teaches the turn

of a cheek into scripture, a sigh into law.

This is the fracture from which I saw

the architecture of air, the blueprint of want,

and forgot my own name in the glorious haunt.

So let the structure go.

Let the tethers undo.

Tonight, I am drowning in what isn’t true,

and it’s the purest thing I’ve ever known—

this sacred, silent, screaming drone

of Romancism, on the ectasy,

rewriting the world just to drown it in me.