psyche of a golden ass

if there is a being
eyes break it down
eyes know it exists and in that moment
it is senile and wobbly
poetry is never young
it is a self-destructing eye
in a mirror maze
and my love for you
pure poetry
stumbling
failing
the purest being
slammed shut now that it
is finally free
rapidly moving
with the ebb of the dream
somewhere in the cosmos
cycling through a different noise
emotions extra-dimensional
a voice trying to speak
without resorting to words

Greek to you

The cynic, sure of his stature as cynosure
Barks and chases his tail through acid
Rain pelted Lyceum halls; miles of stone
Statues, faceless and stained, irrelevant
To the ultimate burial of bone