My patchwork, blanketed tapestry,
of maudlin melancholy, is;
uncomfortably trapped;
tightly, tucked in, and, staring,
at the inside, of my outside,
or, is it, the outside of my inside?

Pricking the panes, of my soul-destroying,
eyelids.

While praying,
for the luminescent,
Phoenixed beacon,
of level-headed, neutrality,
to become incandescent,
burning brightly,
in the present,
switched on.

Memories make my maudlin...