At the winter solstice
my mind darkens to endure
the euphoria that once was heroin
as sleep provides the requiem to the picnic table of life
where there are no tomatoes, no onions
only preservative garnered together
to mask the banal futilities of YOUR common taste.
How bland the mind, bent on perceptions of conformity failing to illuminate that
I never intended to be at one with,
for uniformity is to contempt the mind
to the disbelief that without highs or lows
no one really knows