Menu Poetry

Autobiography of a Madman


Criminals and victims
Are lined up in their tombs
All curled up and crying
Like infants in their wombs.

Their shadows tumble from the stars
Upon the dungeon floor
Oblique and crooked silhouettes
Of their truest form.

Their home is made of rust and glass
Their carpets laid like stone
With iron bars for curtain rods
And flesh that feels like bone.

Their bedside lamps extinguish hope
Shining bright black light
That lit the locks upon their doors
Throughout the endless night.

And here and there they're counting on
(While paying back their debts)
The diabolic little bricks
That line their oubliettes.

And then a dove, it came to me
It glided through the air
It fluttered through the stones and bars
As if they were not there.

She came just like a summer's day
Upon the summer breeze
With feathers softer than the snow
From gardens gold and green.

She wore upon her little head
A little laurel crown
And settled in my corporal cell
Without so much a sound.

She stayed a while to comfort me
And then she took a hair
She plucked it clean from off my head
And flew I knew not where.

Tell me why she came to me
Tell me why she stayed
Tell me why she plucked a hair
And then just flew away

I pray that I may know one day
A day when Kingdom come
A day I will return again
Back to my Heavenly home.

Ch 1 English in the Library
Ch 2 Prisoner
Ch 3 What Can I
Ch 4 Orchard
Ch 5 Broken Brain
Ch 6 Cut-glass Universe
My Lion