Formulaless
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^{by @d-pend

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Formulaless
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The formula itself seems to be formless:
was I more structured in my instruction,
—it may be I'd mourn this.

But in truth — I really don't miss
rows of straight reductionism — in which I was forced to sit.

And be indoctrinated by a vague preteniousness,
fed a false doctrine — clever-masked with eloquence.

Daggers of venom studded with gems and covered with linen:
double-purposed to put on my dead body when I'm done livin'.

Deflation of enthusiasm first — fragmentation,
then destabilize — pastel painted over bright elation;
throw the mass into hysteria with crisis manufactured,
and finally, normalize the chaos ever-fractured.

. . .
Yet truth is a sword vorpal — that pierces through the mortal
delusion, a profusion of lesser blades become ore shards;
dust cloud metallic, microscopic lore that scintillates —
the animal eye seduced by beauty never ruminates.

Yet the formula itself unravels at the merest glance,
decomposing its components into dirt, ether and ants,
rearranging harsh insectoid — evanescent vessel
prehistoric, posthistoric — with the record left to wrestle.

Vinyl etchèd with tree rings and particles:
dust on the disk of the galaxy's manacles,
another generation springs up from the vortex,
another horde to wage battles of the cerebral cortex.

Dispute the finer points and make clear the ambiguities,
refute the obvious and cement tenuous heresies,
illustrious paradox of savagery and simple harmlessness,
when I split I'll reminisce — on my way through the cold abyss.