Unfinished Art

Some souls die
from the duration of deafened ears.
The amplification of internal voices volleying
from temple to temple,
body to soul,
from the heart to tips of tongues.
Braking down reality
to establish dreams,
and releasing a myriad nightmares.
Souls slowly sinking to the beat of a human heart
synchronized to the second hand ticking life away.
Second after second, day light to day break,
tearing from the turbulence before the final decent.
The mind taking its final limps
down the roads reminiscent of
perfection and paranoia.
Down the beaten paths of
Emily Dickinson and Edgar Allan Poe.
Clinging to beauty,
yet disregarding the beholder
to put the psyche on a throne of stone.