On Bedlam
He sat on the bed of roses
They were spread in a confused manner
Certainly intrepid in their graciousness
Their petals waning at their edges
And there alone, he sank into another
She was distant in his dream
He was imagining all the need, the drunkness
Like he had had a dose of laudanum
Conspicuously poising itself on his solemn sorrow
With the wit he had left and the sanity he could collect,
He made for the drawer
Collected a collage of her dresses
And marred together with the roses
The red, the yellow, the white,
Her best colors made him another cushy bed
Kitumba
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