One day he fled the grinding light, Before snows intricate cavalry rode, Upon the saddle of drives and roofs, Calming survivals inflammatory plight. No star of love no Bethlehem, To pack or stuff the void of breast, No mad contradictory creeds, No dumb choir wrecking a hymn. All futures bleed clairvoyant lies, Many prophets are ghost written, Fates circuitous algebra, White scarves of ink upon black skies. In days night the pounding red fist, Knocks out poems to Misses Mist.
I think so...But remember-schizophrenics here voices inside their heads that they cant explain-everything must be qualified
Hmmm... that is true! So, I will say I identify with the struggle, and the disillusionment with man-made dogma.
