Wind Pipe Dreams.

Wind Pipe Dreams.
They never scream.
Morally depraved pieces of peace
forge whispering illusions of knowledge
like Eden's apple.
My thought pattern is the irratic noise of Zues'
urine colored bolts.
The only thing that I hate more than myself
is the repetition of my allusions.
I loathe those crimson banshees.
My anger is sickly justified,
like a shark tasting period blood
in ocean water.

It's easier to pull the blade,
which nourishes my mangled psyche,
when I know they will not scream.