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In the mind he says he lost,
He concluded he'd gone mad.
He'd  journeyed across Wonderland,
And knocked on insanity's door.
From a loon's lips he seems to utter words of genius.
Painting pictures with his songs of trips of places he had been.
By the lake we ventured on well into the night.
We walked on water as the world slept,
And as I stood in awe of my revelations in the mirrors of Vegas,
He bound himself in bubble wrap and nestled up against the Seagull in the basement.
He regurgitated symphonies from deep inside himself.
Heaving, hurling, quarter notes, into written pages.
Borderline delusional, he battles through dementia,
Inflicting puncture wounds into what could be a mirage or real life.
His waking life is a lucid dream, and in sleep he's raped by nightmares.
But still he takes the sleeping pills, unsure of which is which.
Come the break of twilight, or the flicker of aurora,
He's chilling with the opuses of Dax's psychedelia.
He inhales the wickedness of all the world, and exhales the antidote to anxiety,
He's daunted by the burden on his own.
Smiling like a spider, he's enlightened his own way.
He's a prophet of his own religion, talking to the trees,
And a medicated wise man, shaman and a sage, 
He could be madder than a march hair, but his life is his to lead,
Free of consequences of being held down by the title of sanity.

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