Madness Spurned In Tranquility So Often Stems From Rotted Roots

Darkness of the tent exasperate my soul.
Midnight atoms tranquilize the wino.
The prism in the dark surface
disperses the beam into reality,
setting forth each fruitless deed
as the passionless/ate asylum.
A noiseless siren, deafening,
whispers madness, my ears receptively
translating
the dictum into
solid-absolute-postmodern-relative
truth so that these eyes bleed
solid trickling linoleum and fluorescent lights;
prepackaged phrases, supple.
acquiescent on my skin;
burning a hole through this hand.