A Twisted Morse

Peaking, rising, shrinking, dying.  All is lost with out trace, unhinged from possibility, ceasing to brighten.  The audience becomes aroused at this hallucination, yet deny the knowledge of my existence.  Stars aligning, kind coffee aroma swirling into my bedroom, what a grand time to be alive.  Bipolar streams of light peak through the blinds, reminiscing with past me.  We show teeth, gnarl at the existence of man, yet we rely on their acknowledgement; some, acceptance.  

        My heart beats in bizarre patterns, a twisted morse.