Monday, June 27, 2011
I was made to appear in a madhouse.
My father’s beard was as black
As the night of the last night,
His legs were nimble, his bellowing
Much more in time with suicide.
In some ways, it was a relish
To consume and offer
The eternal moments of pain
And suffering, the suicidal questions.
I dreamed of great insects,
Of my father in a suit of death;
My elegy shall provide the material
And finances for his burial.
Still let the search be on in these walls,
This madhouse appeared to be
A sanctuary for the distressed.