ALL THE FORMS OF MADNESS
struck down, damaged,
made unwhole,
made unwell,
yet cut no slack
by pressing worlds;
how to function,
how to be
within this hell?
our days are scrambled,
we have no pattern,
we have no plan;
we are slammed left and right,
tossed up and down,
pinball action
but with metal walls
and we an orb of flesh
too many things,
too many needs;
the hours tumble off,
grabbed by hungry hands
we can not feed,
rapacious schedules
set the norm here
without a haven place
unseen vises
latch upon the head
and squeeze away,
erupting bolts of pain,
spasms of illness,
descending spirals
aching for death
as a release
all the forms of madness
swirl around me,
we can't be sane
to every type of fool;
we must find center,
a base from which to strike
back at their chaos
deep to their fears
- Brendan Tripp
06/03/2002
Copyright © 2002 by Brendan Tripp