Schismatic Revolution

There are no songs that suit my soul when it doesn’t know itself;
Despair or hope, or anxiety or imagination. 
The revolving door traps each in reverberation,
A double-minded relentless speed batters both ways myself by myself.

But breaking would be a sensation that would give direction,
So that is withheld from me, 
Floundering in paralysis sensing only vaguely some infection,
Shivering tingles obscure recklessly.

No rhythm fits right, and no clash makes sense, the light too many years away to see.
This energy without focus discords in plain sight without the masses able to perceive.

There are no words in movies, friendship, or expertise, 
That motivate my spirit enough to commit to more than indecision;
A bed of stale, restless discomfort locks me inside by handing me the keys.

The captor is the captive and both despise the other,
Chained to the same, waiting for the bell to finally toll,
Importing some sort of rescue from the outside.
But if it never comes, they’re beaten into the music of Sheol,
Refraining of emancipation, unable fight the smother.

The door is a trap— but I knock on it harder and hotter,
Its treachery breeds faith in the land of the living:
That everything on the other side must be better than this slaughter
Brings unity to fractured instruments to undo all this un-living.

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