A Sketch Poem by Byepolar Bayer

It’s always the clearest view that blinds me
here in the question zone.
I’ve tallied up the scores again
and the feeble rights
all make a perfect wrong;
I’ve tried subtracting flight from birds
adding heartbreak to the locust's debt
multiplying true by why
and found the myth of meddling
was the mystery that suited most
that turned my words to chaff
and elephants into tools of war
beneath an arch of madness -

all in an old embellished frame
hanging low on a bloodstained wall.
Stepping in or out was easy
during the fighting phase.
It was a meeting of violent rivers
flowing from veins under a bridge
between the bride and the groom.
It swayed between glorious
and the distillation of a nightmare.
It was too soon over
and if could find my way back there
I would kill to end it,
to clear the view
until I could see again.