Asylum
Born in the broken hut of an old story
he persists as a writing,
as words hammered from his own breath.
There is not enough
of the right kind of madness in the world,
too much reasonableness has led to
an increasing violence.
He spoke as if he knew,
but the writer but scribbled his mind
barely thinking, only persevering.
He arrives in the cradle of each morning
fully clothed in words
as a somebodies best and worst idea
yet
only the most keen eared of souls
will know how deeply
he is walled-in
by dread and an appalling silence.
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