Cold winter is running down my spine,
The wet night chills my senses--
Making me crippled, as the insects under the soil.
The lazy falling of the rain drops
In my soul.
I hear.

I am in an asylum--
Under treatment.

I sit beside my window
And sleep.
Freud speaks in my dreams,
Plath in my conscience.
Ashes pile around me
And knocks at the statutory warning.
I shut the window.

Pictures of fake reality
Stare at my empty faces
And creep in my flesh.

I love writing Yeats on the wall,
The white, untainted wall of freedom,
The cool park that i visit at times
And walk among the swans,
Dipped in the sandy waters of time.

Tomorrow was my birthday.
Radios, televisions, newspapers are busy proclaiming
That fake frenzied madness.

Madness, thats me.
Myself.

The rain hasn't stopped yet