rescue mission

by Rupert M. Loydell
Vital information flows freely from mind to page
but I see nothing but chaos and disorder,
ideas about the sanctity of private property
and moral panic about youth.

Knitting or buttoning a coat can induce agony,
where writing becomes a scrawl,
teacups rattle against saucers
and sleeping dragons awake.

Panic, though not without reason,
is fundamentally without cause.
This poem still retains traces;
I don't think I've stopped all week.

Write it in magic marker on your bottom:
smudged capitals, with the word (PANIC)
written smaller and in parentheses.
Now run naked through the shopping arcade.

Reborn, I am ready to be my own design.
This morally blank world is still
the home of my random babbling.
I'll take Zen over frantic meltdown any day.

Read more of Rupert's work in Troubles Swapped for Something Fresh. (See the "recent works" slideshow on the left for a link.)