W J MillerAngels Of Madness

In full flight from reality, the misunderstood angels of madness dwell,
Taken with delusions that can only be seen by them, they openly share.
All things forbidden by the walls of conformity, taking on patterns and color,
We lay down, exhausted, drawing breath from unseen forces everywhere.

The beat poet took a box from under his bed, half-propped on one elbow,
He watched with intrigue as I drew life from his perceptions, scrawled out,
In pencil, he portrayed life more clearly than Ive ever seen it before.
Unmasked, the twisted pain and pleasure of the life of this loser, so brazenly rare.

I closed my eyes and captured this moment in time.
The words and cadence, mismatched and un-rhymed,
Said it plainer and clearer than excerpts, refined.

After meeting for coffee at a local caf, I took him to see my new dwelling.
Once there, I took out my list of lovers to vex, lighting the corner with fire,
Reciting an incantation Id made up right then and there; his expression
The corners of his mouth wryly turned up, his eyes danced with a fear he knew.

We looked into each others souls in silence, and he shared in my torment.
Like the night I casually read his ranting for hours, unaware
That the sharing of our souls was a mutual purging and cleansing
We released each others imprisoned emotions, all laid open and bare.

The beat poet nodded, as if, with a dare and a snare
He took my challenge, and we knew this, aware
Of our connectivity with those angels of madness, everywhere.