Thoughts of the future creep back into my head.
Clawing at the jaws of sanity
They murmur,
Is he there yet?
Should we masquerade this cup
Of bergamot* we have
His yearnings not yet seen?

*Some researchers contend that bergamot is addictive. Which explains the large following of earl grey-sipping primly ladies who carry frilly umbrellas and wear over-sized hats.

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
You see why I dislike poetry? Or pseudo-poetry, or prose masquerading as poetry.
Its so open to interpretation. You can either, from the above,
1. Think I am schizo, and give a detailed explanation why you think so.
2. Critique the piece as
a) An unpolished gem of a work
b) Total rubbish not worth wasting your time on.
3. Regard it as total rubbish anyway AND think I'm getting mad.

I'm still perfectly fine, by the way. Just picking out random words floating around in my brain now. After all, words are but tools to be used and abused, aren't they?
Pesky subjects and messy servants - but wondrous toys, words are.