I push the plunger home again and wait
For multi-coloured patterns to gyrate...
Off we go! I'm flying once again -
'Psychedelic Airtours - you won't return the same'.
Lying on my floating bed I feel
That visions swirling in my head are real.
'When at last the doors are clean' said Blake,
'Things will be revealed just as they are - in endless state'.
A little bit too much this time I fear
(Banshees wails and violins I hear)
Encased in isolation now I cast
away the very life I vowed would last.
My arm hangs limp, inert, and stained with blood.
This may have fixed me well, but I sense that it's for good.
©2005 Jon Lloyd
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
I find this disturbing, whilst I can relate to it. If it weren't for the fact that you had messaged me I would be worried indeed. Well thought out art here. t x