Straitjacket-Odyssey

My anointed straitjacket may always have been ready. My artificial desires all programmed; vulnerable, conscious anxiety at the limits of reason. The worst is when, with zero empathy-tolerance, I can prove that I'm probably worth as much as anyone else by meddling with the regulation of livelihood by ugly, mundane means. 

My optimum tolerance produces a frightened shudder in the atrium of my wandering soul, the fragments of even my boyish self are wounded by tears. Determined awakenings to the present are always another disappointing surprise of this now overdone cyber-age.Cages of room corners often guard my dreams while my silent shadow follows, dancing on the prison acid of walls. 

In my talking eyes I have long since become suspicious of the big picture. Once again, the muddy vomit of the day has been duly affixed to the boldly mouldy, graffiti-covered walls of the housing estates. Bucolic, idyllic panoramic views are now the preserve of untouchable, wild nature; puddle fairies, hawking in the depths of concrete jungles, are dissolving into make-up and pastel colours, unable to learn the universal human lesson: see with your soul, not just with your eyes, which are a feast for the eyes of beauty. 

From the cool, fresh depths of the eyes, ice-flowery noses burst forth; under the arch of rainbows, the electrons of my soul, turbulent and struggling with itself, should be soothed and perhaps reconciled. The sun shows himself a landscape painter of his own making, on which the cedar night sky proudly draws scratched stars!