In his mid-life, at the age of 50, Leo Tolstoy suffered a chaotic bout of depression that eventually led him to a rapturous embrace with the divine…”Thus I hang upon the boughs of life, knowing that the inevitable dragon of death is waiting to tear me, and I cannot comprehend why I am thus made a martyr”

 

 

Mechanical unawareness

Drawn into nothingness

This was the escape from sensibility

Try as he might

He was always just lingering on the other side

Away from the awareness of the self

Penetrating into avaristic greed

Into dark polarity

Where he could become a tenement vessel

For loneliness

Trapped into forever longing

Indifferent to the now

Encrusted in unwillingness to shine

At all, ever

Before he would plummet into the depths of madness

 

Torn away by the train whistle alarm

From his melancholic enrapturement

He would wearily drag his feet

Off the end of his bed

To begin a new cycle of authoritarian

Interaction

By the confused sense of a sociological rite

That he had been governed by

Daily

In his fraught loneliness to design

An effortless work of art

With his fingertips

Drawing out an egoic mind

Declaration of proletariat uprising

That was always lingering

Upon the edges of a

Well-constructed paradigm of class

Of trombone willingness to halt

The transition of the body

And instead just sever the soul

 

How long he had danced within the meandering borderline

Of palpable playground vibrations

Drawing him to the ilk and kin

Of what he believed to be the

Moral-less vacuum

Of every creature’s birth upon this ethereal plane

That had generously fallen short

Of sapien arousal into incarnate knowledge

 

How he longed to be the breath of the dog

Barking haphazardly at the skin of

Any organic vessel

That did not provide instant satisfaction

For temporal drives of momentary completion

Of every act of simple reintegration

Into what must come next

 

He had lingered pretentiously

At the core of the myopic vessel

By the chauvinism of his age

Unsullied by the mistreatment of misogyny

Ever awaiting all of the acclaim that was

Pulling up around him

To deliver him from the darkness

He had receded into

 

Was there ever a moment of escape that he could find?

Jealously seeking the disintegration

Of the animistic soul

From the replication of divine cosmic awareness

He would dig down into dog rot

Hoping never to recover back to a

Land of consciousness

That required any adherence

To mankind’s developed delineation

Of the right from the wrong

 

He had been methodically contemplating suicide

After every eight hour cycle

When he put pen to words

To recreate the mythology of castillian

Fraudulent socialism

 

Until one day, within the heart of hovering

So close to the edge of the well

Where a dragon tongue awaited for him to plummet

As the mice slowly picked apart

The limbs of the branch

That tenuously tethered him to the cistern wall

He had thought he was done tasting the honey

To his lips, to his tongue

He was not

 

It was here, at the edge, hovering

When he slowly released his clinging to the branch

And plummeted slowly into the graceful waterfall

Grasp of the divine

That billowed him up and saved him from

The dragon’s tongue

 

Engaged now in rapture

Excreted from the core

Of the belly of the spineless whale

He would begin to write

The words of freedom

That would transcendentalize everything

And unleash the prophet’s sword

To tunnel his way back

Into emancipation