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