From the Jungle to the Zoo

Pretty poetry swirling around in the outskirts of the wealth of the picture of my intention. And later on there is leprosy noise after the mouth knives of self-attraction. It lingers in the heart sometimes, like a pang, like a look that controls. It fades and peace is restored and peace then allows the silence, and that special type of personal freedom where you can think what you want, and you are completely ignored. And then there becomes that time, that clockless moment of truthful isolation. Peace must be a solitary thing until it turns in on its own self-consciousness. Then there is the need for simple escape to the jungle, where the clocks tick and the lions roar right on time. And inside my head is like a museum sometimes when its late and dark and the night crawls over me. The night knows my tales. I cannot evade it. It corners me, to make me do the things that I most want to avoid. Another picture for the gallery perhaps? I protest that I no longer have the inclination, and that because of this, any art I create will be tainted in mediocrity. Day is born again, gives me freedom back to me, but suggests a plea that was heard from the night and asks for further consideration. I look at the day and think of the night and wait for the clock to stop, until the moment can live inside of me and inspire me and motion me to motion. And from the jungle to the zoo lost in her shadow, cursing the darkness of her memory, yet wondering about who and how she became.