He is the laughing man, the storyteller through gritted teeth.
The laughing man that tips his bowler
and releases the ghosts that haunt me.
Like windswept fire they lurch and churn
off his glossy head and hypnotize.
My vision is tinged with blue
as enter autohypnotic trances
dancing through a color spectrum -
red over blue, yellow over green, red over violet -
that converges as it rises
into a tapestry of yarns frayed along the edge.
Incomplete. This is unacceptable;
this man that weaves and laughs, indignantly
telling the crewel lyes that whitewashes
my face and the convergence from itself.
He destroys for destruction's sake,
making the tapestry as untarnished as I was
before I caught his ire - cold and hateful.
He is the ruler of caustic yarns.